Crimson And Clover. Over And Over

Adam bought me a chemistry set for my birthday.

I wrote him a thank you card, I made it myself from the newspaper that I get in the morning. In truth, it belongs to Artea but she lets me read it and colour in the black and white pictures. Sometimes I cut out pictures that remind me of Gethsemane. I put them my sock draw so that no one sees them. The draw is so full I have to put my socks in photo frames. Niko thinks this is funny.

Chemistry is most fascinating and has kept me from writing here for a very long time. The doctor said that he never had to treat someone for self induced memory loss before. I will explain what happened.

It was many weeks ago, Artea and I were painting her bedroom. We painted it red. I insisted on using a toothbrush because of when father used to paint with his own blood. I didn't tell Artea about this though. After we were done, Artea made me a drink.

It burnt when I drank it, Artea says it's alcoholic. She knows lots of big words like that. The alcohol reminded me of when I was little... When my mother used to put her 'special drink' on my cereal. It used to send me to sleep, but it didn't anymore.

Instead, everything when fuzzy and really quite amusing. I found myself giggling out loud. Artea was suprised too, it is the first real noise I have made ever since I moved in. She smiled at me. Her face was so beautiful, I kissed her lips.

Later, I thought of Gethsemane and cried. It is entirely possible to love two girls at the same time but it is very unhelpful. I decided that if I didn't know what happened, then neither could Gethsemane.

I mixed myself a chemical. There are lots of chemisty books in my flat. There are lots of books because I steal them. It seems strange to me that no one cares. I mixed a chemical in hope that I would wake up the next day with little memory of the previous night.

I woke up in hospital and could not remember very much about me.

Soon I was able to return home. After I had done this, the door was knocked on. I opened it and there was a new face. He looked kind yet nervous as if he was about to steal me but he didn't want to. Or he was going to tell me that I wasn't wearing any trouser. He told me his name was Niko. I did not tell him mine, because I couldn't. But he already knew I was a mute. He said that Artea had told him what had happened to me. Then he handed me a book.

Later, I looked in the book. Inside, there were photographs of me taken from a distance and many details about my personal life and the things I do throughout the day. It was like a diary, written by someone else. He had been following me and cataloguing me every move.

How sweet of him! He knew that I had lost my memory... Bless Niko.

I'm in love.

Send me an e-mail please.

I have not forgotten about you.

But guilt pains me like a papercut to the iris.

Last night, my and Artea were sipping wine that we found. I don't have much in the way of glasses but she didn't seem to mind when I offered it to her from a shoe. I think she thought I was being amusing.

Later than night, everything seemed furry to think about. It is the same sensation you would experience if you took complete rage and turned it into something uncertain and humourous.

Artea took my by the hand and I felt a sensation in my chest that was as if there was a hole there. Instead of a heart there was something far more hollow. Like a hollow piece of wood. A shed, if you will.

She led me down the corridors in our building. I noticed that there were no painting on the walls anymore. I suppose I must have got them all. I needed something to keep the fire burning. Or I did, at least, before I knew that I had central heating. However, she led me towards a door which I had not passed through before. It led onto the roof.

Roofs conjure many memories for me. Once, I threw a brick at a mans head whilst on a roof back in Melbourne. Only because I wanted to kill him though. Other times, I have brought dead friends to the roof because the birds will pick clean their bones. That was a long time ago though. The prodominant memory that always occures when I stand on a rooftop is that of my father.

My father was insane and eventually shot himself but felt that standing on the rooftops brought him closer to my 'real mother'. It was upon one time that I brought his frozen salmon (his prefered state of meat) to the roof that he told me all about her.

"Clovey," he said to me. "Clovey, I want you to listen to me. You've never heard properly about your REAL MUM!" He shouted the last two words at a bird which had landed on the wall next to him.

"Don't call me Clovey" he said to him, as I was not mute at the time in my life.

"Clovey... you're mother was wonderful. She was... so... fireproof." He murmered on. It is worth pointing out here that I had known my mother very well. She was a genious scientest before the sugar factory accident which took her from me. She would always be nice to me and she would kiss my eyes when theywere closed. However, the real mother I remember and the real mother that my father was speaking of, were apparent two different people.

"Cloveryry" He whispered. "Come closer..." And i did. "Clover. The truth is... your mother... she was a powder."

I didn't know what to say

"DON'T TALK ABOUT YOUR MOTHER LIKE THAT! She was a fine powder... a good powder. Sooo very cylindrical... so nice."

And that is the memory. That and of course the fact that I watched my father swallow a pistol bullet in the same spot no more than 3 days later. But let by gones be by gones... I loved my mother. I am almost certain that she was not a powder although I have no evidense now since she is dead... She certainly didn't feel powdery.Until she was cremdated, of course.

But standing on the roof there with Artea's hand in mine I could hear my fathers voice. And no sooner could I, A gust of wind blew dust into my eyes. I thought of the dust as a sort of powder and even though my eyes were watering anyway, I was crying. I can't say why. You would be insane to believe a word that my father said. Although the doctor said that his conditions was "heriditory" or something, I did not believe my mother to be a powder. But I can still never hold a grudge against it. I've always had a connection to it. Whenever I get dust in my eyes, I always think of my mothers kisses.

This is probably why I have collected sand in the kitchen of my flat for so long.

I have been acting very strange lately, it is probably something to do with the upcoming lunar eclipse.

I haven't written for so long because I have been under the delusion that fingers were a sin. This made most tasks very tedious but Santos understood. He is such an understanding cat.

Artea came to my rescue the day that I tried to remove my fingers once and for all. She said something that really got to me. Suddenly it was so clear. She said "Clover, finger aren't a sin."

It echoed in my head as if my mind were a cave and she had screamed into it.

Then I hugged her. Whilst doing this, I summoned my courage and kissed her on the cheek. She looked at me and smiled. I thought I felt a small piece of me melt. I realised later that it was blood from where the knife had been resting on my finger.

For six days I have acted as if I was a cat.

On Wednesday morning I came to work and immediately curled up on the carpet in the corner of the room. Adam didn't mind. In fact, he left a saucer of milk for me to gently lap at should my feline thirst need quenching.

Today I decided that being a cat was very pleasant indeed but it was not paying the bills and Artea looked at me in a funny way on Saturday. I much prefer it when she looks into my eyes with a look that says "who are you?" I much prefer being a mystery to Artea. The strange look came about when I scratched at her door. When she opened it I rubbed myself against her leg. She gave me the look and I retreated next door.

I put a note on her door earlier asking her round for tea and steak. She replied with a note of her own, I found this touching as she respects my decision to remain mute. However, the note read,

"Clover,

I'm afraid I am vegetarian and have little to no desire to eat steak. Never the less, I shall bring some snacks and I look forward to having tea with you.

best wishes,
Artea x"

It's just as well that I'm not eating tinned cat food anyway. She would probably find this much less desirable than the prospect of me eating steak.

Santos is my cat, he is black and tabby and cute and understanding.

It often fascinates me to think what it must be like to be a cat.

Tomorrow, before doing anything, I will think "How would Santos handle this situation."

My employer, Adam Tenex, suggested that we make our working environment more visually presentable.

I decided to write hyroglyphics on home made paper and stick them to the wall. Each piece of paper held the name of every country I have travelled to. There were three pieces of paper. Adam said it was a good start but we need to breathe life into room.

On my way to work each day, I skate past my favourite plant. It is not too big and not too small but looks like it would be your friend if you gave it the chance. I went outside with my spade and dug it up. When I brought it back to the office, I noticed that there was not obvious place for me to put it and I was getting mud all over my notes and memos. I decided that it would grow well in the toilet.

It is growing very well but we now have to use the toilet across the street.