Sewell’s record

Sewell dreamt of a long, wide pond. The pond was dark and did not reflect light. It was in a garden. Sewell was crouching at the edge of the pond with his cupped hands beneath the surface of the water. His hands were still, they formed a basin within the water of the pond, creating a warm zone that invited the bored fish to investigate and nudge against the rising heat. The fish bumped their faces and bodies against Sewell’s skin.

Crouching there, in his dream, the water refreshed him. His knees did not ache at all. The sight of the garden amazed him and made him feel smooth and calm.  The dimps of contact between his knuckles and the fish bodies made him think of the word muscle. He said the word muscle in the dream. His real asleep lips also moved, gesturing towards the word muscle, or even fish muscle.

He planned to tell someone his dream when he woke, about the water and the garden and the calm, but after swaying to the kitchen, turning on the lights against the sad morning, planting bread in the toaster, he lost all of it. The feeling of his hands in the water, the darkness of the pond, and the orange moon that was above him, all forgotten. He forgot too the voice of his friend, which was saying sombre-voiced words, repeating promises to him from the air.

He lost all of it. He was frustrated while he buttered the toast. His heart quickened as he strained and failed to catch even a scrap of the dream. He thought again that perhaps he was losing his mind. Or his mind was fraying, or becoming hard at the edges, like old flaps of ham. His mind was going off and inviting parasites. He said the word ‘flies’ to himself, meaning flies eating his scuffed brain matter.

Whatever was happening to his brain, he could not remember the dream of the pond.

But now it is here, written down. So you know about his dream. How do you know about his dream? This is another sickness that has happened to Sewell. Along with his swollen knees and his forgetting, there is this record that he does not know about, and cannot ever see. This archive is a disease of his.

As he butters his toast, then gets dressed, then eats the toast, then drinks water, then as he goes outside, all his aches are archived here. Or in fact, the archivist is lazy, so his aches are implied. The archive relies on your understanding of other archives to grasp the kind of aches that Sewell has. He has swollen knees. He has water retention. He gives no sign of these things to the outside world, but he knows, and you know, that he aches.

In the street, he sees nobody. Where is he going? To the shop, and then he will come home and work. It’s early. He has had a dream that excited him. He hopes that as he walks he will remember. But he does not remember. He will never remember the dark pond and his cupped hands and the warm water that was so appreciated by the fish.

He sees not a soul. The supermarket is open and he conducts his shopping casually. All around him is the sense of people working, but their bodies are not present. Or, he does not see them. He also does not look for them. He goes around the aisles, he puts products into his trolley. Each product is unrelated to the next. They are foods that he calls treats. He tells himself he is entitled to these delicious things. He has been alone for a while. He is still in the phase of eating food he knows is unhelpful to his health and sense of worth. The sugar makes him tired and agitated. The salt makes him thirsty and uninspired. He sees nobody. He sees nobody. He uses the self-checkout, packs his bag – his tote bag from a conference he never went to – and leaves.

What happened at this conference, where Sewell’s tote bag was handed to delegates, and which Sewell himself did not attend? He doesn’t know. The archive has this information, but it is not important for you to know. Neither Sewell nor you know what happened at that conference. You don’t know. You cannot know.

In another document, the details of this conference are written up for other readers to enjoy and understand, but you do not have access to this document. You will never have access to this document. And nor will Sewell.

On his way home, Sewell receives a text message. He reads it and puts his phone back into his pocket.

He asks himself – do I remember what that text message says? He tells himself that yes, he knows  exactly what the text message says, every word. He can picture the exact words on the screen in his mind, his healthy mind. He has that knowledge. When he gets home, he fetches a note book and a pencil from the bits and bobs drawer. He sits at the kitchen table and writes down what the text message said. It’s a test for his brain, to check he isn’t losing it. When he has finished and he is sure the words on the page are the words in the text message, he takes his phone out of his pocket and compares the two.

He has the gist right, but almost all of the words are in the wrong order or are the wrong actual words.

Sewell ignores his raised heartrate. He ignores the orblike feeling in his stomach. He decides that the gist is what matters and then he opens the kitchen door which leads to his grey yard. The whole yard, walls, ground, fence, are all different types of concrete. Some have patches of black. Sewell will never know what caused those patches of black. Not the substance or the microbes nor the human agent responsible. He has a better idea about the lichen, but even then - severely limited knowledge.

He looks at the lichen – the colours are pale, so pale they barely register. He likens himself to this thin lichen. He touches an area with his finger. He goes inside and eats spiced, long life, unrefrigerated, preserved meat. He drinks milkshake. He feels shame.

In his dream, which he cannot remember, his hands were cool, and the moon was full of golden marriages and heartfelt regards, and the sky was purple and the garden was heavy green. For the rest of the day, he sees nobody.

The archive records that Sewell replied to the text message eight hours after receiving it. The message he sent in reply was short but kind. It offered his warmest congratulations. It said, modestly, that he was doing ok, and that he would love to see them some time soon. He ended it with a kiss.    

 These words complete, the archivist tucked away the writing materials, took two or three refreshing hops on each foot, and sped through the hall, along the corridor of stone, to the toilet. The archivist did a wee. The archivist washed their hands and face and moved at a slower pace to the stairs. One hundred stairs down to the foyer. The archivist saw not a soul. The archivist ventured alone to the garden, and approached the dark pond. There, crouching, the archivist plunged both hands into the cold water, and held down the faces of those who wished to come out. Their faces rubbed hungrily against the archivist’s fingers. They pushed their cheeks and mouths against the archivists hands. The archivist sighed and spluttered gently on their behalf because they could not reach the surface, and could not make noise. Down into the water they went, out of the sight of the orange moon.

In this way, the archivist drowned the conference organiser who was once called a prince by a visiting celebrated journalist with special dietary requirements.

The archivist held down the design graduate, paid £90 for her designs for the tote bag that was handed out at the conference.

The archivist held down a dog owner, a bee lover, a cold boy. The archivist pushed them under and they drifted away into the swell of dark water.

You have finished work for the day, then? A voice asks. The archivists manager has arrived in the garden.

The archivist confirms that work is done for the day. I’m just doing the pond now.

you are always drowning those things. It’s unhealthy, the manager turned his face away from the pond, and the archivist.

The two of them remain in silence in the garden. There is no breeze. There are no animals or insects. They both know they are sick, and the garden with its golden moon go on forever.