Chris Port Blog #75. Somebody is building a gallows under my bedroom window...

© Chris Port, 2011

By the tapping of a nail
Something’s flapping in the gale

Two years of it... Musical bitches, I’ve come to accept. Management bastards, I’ve come to accept. The end of 14 years work, I’ve come to accept. But now, this? Somebody is building a gallows under my bedroom window...

It must be that. What else could it be? The carpentry is relentless.

It starts shyly (slyly) then rappens to an emphatic coffin lid finality. Then, like insidious bullying, it starts all over again...

The metronome is maddening.

1/2/7.
Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-TAP.
(Beat).
Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-TAP.
(Repeat...)

All. Bloody. Morning.

I’ve been creative with it. You should always be creative with insanity (otherwise you’ll go mad). Some people count sheep to fall asleep. I counted people. Falling through a trapdoor. Seven of them. Over and over again. Their faces were hooded. But I knew who they were. I kicked their stools away.

But I didn’t build them a gallows. I built them a stage. My slip knot nooses slipped loose at the end of the jerk. My stage trapdoor had a mattress at the end of the drop. Public vengeance is what writers do for a living. Our spleen cuisine is served at liquid nitrogen temperatures. But we are kinder than our ice belies. We build redemption into our characters. What a shame that real people don’t do the same. Lack of imagination. It kills...

Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-TAP...

Somebody is building a trapdoor under my bed... Time to get up.