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Placing a bony hand on the front door one morning, something sparked controversy, and I shuddered to a halt. Standing there, I was struck blind by a peculiar lapse in space and time.

Something had silently exploded, or imploded: Catastrophic, yet on a microscopic scale. From what I could tell, its epicentre was at the centre of my brain. Somehow its conveyor belt had twanged, and its mysterious machinery had ground to a halt.

Floundering in the aftermath, then regaining sight of my surroundings, an atmosphere of uncertainty, a barren landscape, and a creeping sense of ‘déjà vu’ materialised.

After removing my hand from the knob, I stared at the door. Surely this is my front door? Surely this is my house? But why am I leaving? Where am I going today? More to the point, who am I?

Raising my hands, I methodically examine them, turning them over and over, like pages of a book, searching for answers. Two hands, two palms, eight fingers, and two thumbs. They are long fingers, exquisite, although slightly worn and discoloured from time. The skinny wrists disappear into an overcoat, slightly too large for my form. It stretches downwards, dark and rich to just above the knee. Grey trousers poke from underneath, ending in black shoes, polished, and pointed in the Italian style. I’m not Italian though. I can assure you I am not! I don’t speak Italian! I don’t know any Italians! I’ve certainly never ever, ever been to Italy!

 
 

But then who knows?

Frankly I’ve lost sight of myself, and must find the thread of my existence, or else freeze forever in this state of suspended animation.

Someone, somewhere, some-when once said “If your in a state of forgetfulness, retrace your steps and eventually you’ll remember what you are supposed to be doing.”

Well, I suppose that’s what I’ll have to do!

I rotate one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, and face the dim hallway. Squinting down its narrow column, I see paintings and memorabilia lining the wall, and blank doors leading to hidden rooms. It reminds me of a dusty gallery encapsulated in the past.

Tilting forward, then uprooting a pointed shoe from the carpet, as if dug from the earth itself, I gingerly retrace my last footsteps. I’m moving forward, yet at the same time revisiting, and rewinding the past, as if it were an old movie. The framed paintings mingling colours, and swirling shapes, play intricate patterns. They make no, sense. There’s no true form. Yet oddly, they stir something inside of me: Meaning?

A signed name is tucked in every corner: B.D.Symonds.

continued.....>>>
 

 
 

Cautiously, I approach one of the doorways. Yawning open, it reveals pots and pans, stacks of plates, spice jars, jugs and mugs. Light streams through kitchen blinds causing a stripy effect. Reversing, I try the opposite door. It swings open, painting a picture of scattered clothes, coat hangers, a large bed, and an oak dresser, mountains of shoes, boots and slippers. Certainly I’m not the tidiest of people!Reaching the end of the hallway, I feel that the third and final door holds the key. Slowly, I rotate the knob. Breaking through its seal, it angles open, and white light floods my eyes. A grand south-facing window illuminates a study. Now this rings a bell! What I seek must be in here!

A large grandfather clock stands in the corner. Proud and bold. Materials of many colours drape over sofas, intricate sculptures smile, laugh, and grimace. Paint pots, pencils, pens, brushes, dye, and yet more paint pots. An etching board catches the light, its unfinished painting immature and incomplete, yet mesmerising. What does it mean?

Yet the painting doesn’t hold the answer. Scratching my head I look around and then see it: a brown leather diary, sitting on the edge of a desk. Surely I’ve found it! Surely this is the answer! Hands trembling I flip it over, then turn the pages backwards, trying to find the last entry. Blank page, after bank page, after blank page…

Then a breakthrough. Written in scrawling fountain pen in the cipher of an absent minded scholar…

June 5th
Doctors appointment 9am: After years of leading an eccentric and artistic life, it is, as I fear that I, the great and worldly B.D. Symonds may be finally losing my marbles…

Behind me the ancient grandfather clock strikes nine times. I rotate one-hundred-an-eighty-degrees…

Maxwell Kusi Obodum

Jay B Show me some art.com