Issue two// Max Cambridge

E A R P L U G S

I've never had such blissful sleep as I did whilst having these ridiculous pink pieces of expanding rubber pushed deep into my ears. When you've blocked out the sound of unnoticeable, invisible things it becomes clear how loud they really are. Water running through a pipe. A red fox's pawsteps in the loud air, along the creaking, crumbling earth. The bricks your house is built from, rubbing against the cement, against each other. At the same time, the growling hum of the fridge, the clunk/fucking/clunk/fucking/zrrrm of the washing machine, pipes stretching themselves, stretching their metal arms to ensure they are useful when the sun rises. The handles of cupboards, loudly aching to be pulled or twisted, like the audible desire of downtrodden housewives, opressed by the jealous patriarch. Convulsing electronics, unsure when to keep quiet. The cause of an unpredictable life. Lightbulbs dancing to the loud, evening music of the breeze and sleeping birds. An unbearable cacophony of silence ripping my conscience apart.

All

gone

once my ears are filled. I become aware of my breathing, the hard beating of my heart that seems like it's resonating from miles off, a pounding of Thor's Semtex hammer against the bare scorched earth, when my breath increases and I'm aware of the images inside my mind. Images of skin, turned around in dizzy circles and covered in sweat, hot gasps as we slither in the dark, a uh-tutu-ara, Polonius fucking wishes he was here. Afterwards, while turning over, a wheezing sound tells me the air has been pushed out of my lungs. So liberating. I become aware of the blood inside my veins. Each individual cell. They are bustling like the women of my past life at the market place, queuing for meat and vegetables, queuing to feed their families. Pushing against each other, anxious to get something decent, worn down from the early rises and the late nights and brave face that is eating into their real one. Worn down to acceptance. Worn like rags. My bones creak. It runs in the family. I imagine a road and it's completely silent: so beautiful. Away from the crumbling blocks of cells in Zhitomir, away from the market full of rotting animal meat. This place I'm in right now, it's the best place in the world. Complete solitude, complete tranquillity. No worry, no chemical reactions filtering my reactions and thoughts. Darkness and silence. I can finally think clearly, devoid of the shouts from girls and boys interested in "culture". Devoid from gasping fathers and zealous mothers and their complete opposites. Marquez was onto something. Sleep envelops me and I melt into a thousand yellow puddles.

© Max Cambridge 2010

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Max Cambridge was born in Zhitomir, Ukraine and grew up all over England and western Europe. He writes for Grizzly and John McClure's (of Reverend and the Makers) Ark magazine. His personal blogs are Gavrilo Princip's Tales and prizedoberman. He also has a Flickr. Recently, he has been obsessively making prints and getting better at taking pictures. His Grandfather died in the Chernobyl nuclear disaster.