Dressed

Dressed




You see it all the time; whether you know its happening or not is a completely different story. Society dictates to us that this is the way it has to be, even though we might not agree with it. The rules have been set in concrete for such a long time, that it is hard to form a crack and undo the myth.

I woke up this morning; it was like most other mornings. I lay there blissfully unaware of any concept of time. I was thinking whether or not I should get out of bed. The warmth of my duvet, after a hard fought nights rest, compelled me to stay there long after the alarm had gone off. I raised my hands high above my head and brought them down in a wide circle, bringing them back up to my eyes in the hope of getting rid of any sleep that might be left in their surroundings. A voice out of the dark spoke to me, it was as loud and as clear as any on a public announcement system at a rugby stadium. It was the same one I hear every morning, repeating those familiar words “Get your fat arse out of bed, you lazy prick!” And just to prove it wasn’t kidding, my leg that was no longer mine, kicked my duvet off the bed onto the floor, leaving me nowhere to hide except for my birth day suit.

The crisp fresh air son arose me, the coolness of an icy morning I did not like. There upon came my next daily ritual as I painfully stood up and stepped out, into the confines of my mind. I stand there, searching for something to wear, who am I going to see today? What are they going to think of my appearance? Where am I going?



I open up my top draw and put on my undies. The orange ones, my memories of a child. Of being free, playing in the ditch back home with my Tonka trucks and tractors, “Hey Jim can you hurry up and load me, that roads got to be built today or old man Joe will have a hernia!” “Give me a second Bob, I got a blown gasket, the mechanic will be here soon.” Just sitting there away from mum and dad, playing by myself with not a care in the world, the sparrows are singing in the trees above and I am lost in a world of my own. Carving out roads, and floating huge ships up the stream to off load my precious cargo of Lego. I’d build my little settlements and have many farms. But as always, there would be a fight and bombers would come flying over head, while a battalion approached from the south, ruining my perfect sanctuary. Being sick of this game I stand up and run out onto the farm looking for another adventure. Too many trees to climb, too many animals to play with, too much mud to get messy in (well there can never be enough mud). I know I’ll go tad poling, I race up and grab my big brother, nearly tearing his arm out of its socket. “Can we go for a ride on the motor bike? Please!!!” I scream, “Go tad poling”. And before he can reply I’m sitting on the petrol tank waiting for him to take me.



Next I put on my socks, first the right. I look at it, being still half asleep, and see between its threads, a boy in a room, he’s staring out the window, yet there is a row of desks with other kids, he must be in a classroom, he must be at school. Huh was it that boring? At a closer look I see a textbook in front of him, with the words maths 101 inscribed no wonder!! Brrrrrrinngggg, a bell rings and the kids all pile out of the class, each into their groups, the teachers pets all huddle around their books, the sporty kids race onto the fields, and the dreamers stroll arrogantly to the mirrors. Yet this boy, he slowly walks outside, looks around with glaring, “uh so what, I don’t give a shit.” He curses (he’s up to no good, I can tell by the look on his face), before disappearing behind a building, where there’s a few boys waiting. He pulls out a cigarette from his pocket, and it’s not long before he is coughing and ch/joking with his peers. One of the guys pulls out something green, tainting that young innocent face I had just seen. Being not sure if I wasn’t to see any more I scour this draw for another sock.



Then I put on the left sock. I can’t find a matching pair, so a black one will do. But it’s not just a black sock, it speaks words, whispering quietly to me, so soft I can only just hear them (Damn I must have had some good shit last night!!). I listen carefully and dream old nightmares that make me shudder, my heart beats strongly, sweat warms my pits. And damn!! This sock stinks!! Things have gotten worse. I see myself. I relive old fears, a small boy into a grown man, with a question mark above his head. He’s trapped, like a monkey in a zoo, his eyes staring unabatedly at the ground; no reason to look up, when there’s dirt on the floor. I want to rescue this poor guy, yet I know any attempt will fail, especially with that storm of secrets brewing right above his head. A thin white light darts all around him, leaving a silk trail, much like the thread of a spiders web, and I wonder will he see this gift that is being offered, Or will he sit there, with his secrets holding him captive. I close the draw, with this sock stuck to my foot. Thinking, there has to be a better solution to my nakedness. I close the draw, still searching for some warmth.



I’m ready now for something to wear on top. Wearily I open my middle draw.

Shirts and jerseys leap to my attention. There’s my nice going out clothes, the ones I wear when I really want to impress certain people and depict a certain image. Or there are the ones with the typical farm boy look, the familiar and sane, they are the ones that spell out who I am, without a letter being touched. Yet this old woollen jersey, that mum knitted for me, strikes my eye. It looks comfortable and soft to the touch. I pick it up and look deep within. I see the boy again, he has a huge grin, family and friends surround him, a cat smooches his legs, and a dog drops a ball at his feet. He’s at home just chilling. He looks content. I’m taken on a quick journey, the observer from the sky, watching his past antics. Laughing, feeling the good that has come from so little effort, this jersey does not say as much as the others, rather it creates and lets the imagination do its talking. I put it down, with a smile growing, I am reminded of all the good that is free and ready in the world. I’ve got to wear this one, if not before any thing else. I raise it to my nose and smell it, instantly an invisible barrier flows into my lungs and I am secure.



I slip on my singlet, my honesty. My thoughts and reality, my feelings towards others and my conditioning as to how I’ve been brought up to be. My truth in every sense of the word I keep very close to my chest. Tight and under plenty of layers. It’s protected against the harsh conditions of the external; very few people would ever get to see this item. It is one of my four most essential pieces of clothing. To show this singlet to anyone would be like being naked and my vulnerabilities would be exposed. How would people react of they knew the real me? Surely I need some form of defence.



So on I go, the road is far from complete. There’s still plenty more moods of jeans and attitudes of jackets to pick from before I head out. They say the clothes maketh the man, or is it the man maketh the clothes. I dress myself, from the inside out. First on goes the undies, protecting my jewels, my inner self. Then as the shirts go on, and the jeans come up, I begin to paint a picture. Who is it I want people to see today? My old torn shirt and faded jeans, the casual cabbage look, giving me a defence and a wall behind me to fall back upon. Or is it the business shirt and tie, dressed up to look smart and impress some body I’ll never see again, or a person not from the old town, who doesn’t know me too well. These layers of clothes appear so simple, but the more I put on, the greater the reflection I see in my mobile phone. I stare at it, seeing my body around different people in different places. The phone flashes pxt messages images across its screen, a different me for a different person, for a different situation. Am I the same me to you, as I am with my brother? What have you got that I want and how can I get it? What appearance or form do I have to take on to survive in this world?



With nothing short of a huge effort I heave open the bottom draw, my last and final mission. I’ve seen myself in a haze realising that deceit is more than just a phase. I look down, I’m squinting so much I can hardly see inside, yet something’s down there it’s so small I almost missed it. It’s just sitting there all alone peacefully minding its own business, yet it speaks to me (I don’t remember what I had last night but it must have been good!) and I am drawn to it, like a mouse to the trap. I find myself in a closet, running towards it. Clothes fly off their hooks, such is the pace and desire at which I want, need it. And when I get there, through my exhaustion I see it is not one, but many. I drop to my knees with tears racing down my cheeks to form a shallow pool on the floor before me. I realise I don’t want to wear it yet the thought of being without it is too hard to comprehend. It’s like my cigarettes, a horrible unhealthy addiction that will kill me in the end, yet it’s something I enjoy and quite frankly I know no other way, I do not choose the one, the mask I wish to wear, rather it chooses me. It rises from its seat, slowly spinning, its glare catches my thoughts turning them into grey and there it hovers for a few agonising seconds before setting upon my face, sealing itself there with a tube of liquid nails and a box of inch long multiscrews.



I fall out of my mind, landing back in the present. Only to find myself staring at the floor, shrinkage has set in. I don’t know how long I’ve been standing there for, but I’m sure I’ve missed the bus. I get dressed, undeniably questioning why I am wearing certain clothes. Hey why don’t I go naked? Na too cold. Besides if a man, a person, were to walk starkers down Fitzherbert Avenue on their way to Massey, or any where in fact, surely society would frown. And they’d get arrested. That myth of freedom, so strong, yet so fake would have some rapid set cement poured over it and that tiny crack would be sealed for yet another day.