It has been a long time since Murdoc sat down and shoved words together. So long in fact, that he finds himself at a loss where to begin.
So he types, “It has been a longtime since Murdoc sat down and shoved words together. So long in fact, that…”
And the Universe steps in with great humour and his power goes out. Poof. He is left sitting in the cold and dark November, waiting, waiting, for the lights come back on so that he can begin again.
So he lights a candle and ambles about his tiny prison, his haven, his lighthouse, on the black water. In his head he composes this piece while he awaits and lit cigarettes glow amber in the dark.
“Out back, in the abyss, the black water is hardening. The ice has now reached almost out to the end of the pier. My side of the peninsula is dark; some young fool must have hit a telephone pole on our only road in and out, our only life line, and now we all just sit in the dark and the cold and wait. Wait.
Don’t be obvious and type “weight”.
Where have I been?
And he answers back…”Nowhere and everywhere”. It sounds so simple. And in theory it should be.
Where has Murdoc been? Where have I been?
He has been destroying things for a good deal of money. He has been a “demolition expert”. And it should be noted that this was not his first time, his first rodeo. He had been there before. When he was young, he loved this lifestyle and its terrible trappings. Now that he is older and wiser, he can no longer be a part.
But he did nine months. Nine terrible months that destroyed his body and mind. Nine months that took a toll on his beloved. During this time, at its infancy, Erdanus, Tippy, his love, stayed with him in their lighthouse by the black water. She was there…and he wasn’t. He hates himself for this abuse of their valuable, limited time and connection. But he was harnessed up and dangling in elevator shafts and bringing down mountains or rubble and twisted steel. Murdoc lost himself in his work, in the delicious destruction of man’s folly, and he is a lucky man that Tippy stood by him and let him indulge.
It took a toll on her. She hated hearing the stories of chaos and uncertainty and despised the reports of injuries. And there were many. One night he proudly reported that a shoring tower had collapsed upon him. “They think I might have two broken vertebrae in my neck and I definitely have a severe head concussion. They held me for a spell to make sure I was okay to drive home.” And he drove himself home, alone, because she was gone back to her side of the world and her obligations. And as he shares this news across the zeros and ones, her eyes well up with tears and she fights to be strong for him. This wasn’t fair. He was so broken at this point that a catastrophic physical failure was inevitable; and seemed like the only recourse, and the only outcome, to the work which he had committed himself to undertaking. And his angel across the black water never left his side, even if she wasn’t there by his side.
It took time, and understanding, and love to bring him back.
And he returned.
He resigned his post as “demolition expert” and locked himself away for a spell to regain his composure. He is a gentle man with rough sensibilities, and finding his way back has not been easy.
But he is on his way.
So Murdoc sits in the dark, waiting for the power to come back on so he can write, start getting things out again. And in the quiet he hears this,
It goes on, this comfort sound, and then restarts after a seemingly endless breath.
And here in is the silly.
It is not his great love across the black water trying to calm his combat weary soul. It is not her warm breath and slow exhale across his cold cheek. It isn’t her delicate finger touched to his cracked and brittle cold lips and the “Sssssshhhhh” of lovers understanding.
It is his toilet.
He wishes it was something more, and Lord know his great woman across the black water has called to him many times and eased his weary soul in moments of terrible need.
But tonight it is just his toilet.
The flapper inside the tank has chosen to sit improperly on the release hole ever so, and just a small trickle of water under four pounds of pressure, has created this comforting sound.
No math or semblance of reason for its breath and restart.
Purrfect. Murdoc has figured it out and is maddened by its non linear and lack of mathematical cadence and way.
But he loves it just the same. He will sit in the dark, waiting for the light and heat to come back on; return, and if he waits long enough, he will discover the rhythm. He is a patient fool finding his way back…Finding his way back into a universe that needs him. He cannot wait to share this story.
Don’t “Ssssshhhhhhhhhh” me.
The lights come back on after a long enough wait that his prison, his lighthouse, their tiny cottage by the sea, has grown cold.
Out back, the black water has frozen and reached the end of the pier.
Murdoc lights a cigarette, opens a beer and types…
“It has been a longtime since Murdoc sat down and shoved words together. So long in fact, that…”