The Immeasurable Apotheosis of Sid Wright, Part 2

Hello, folks!

Here is Episode 2 of our Patreon-exclusive mini-series The Immeasurable Apotheosis of  Sid Wright - in this episode, Sid Wright arrives back in his hometown of Puckham's Weald. 

Hope you enjoy it!

Sid Wright: David S. Dear
Therapist: Muna Hussen

Written by Jon Ware
Sound design by Muna Hussen. 

Transcript:

EPISODE 2

We’re in a car on the roadside. Occasional vehicles pass.

THERAPIST ON TAPE:

Welcome back to the Tragus on Tape.

Just as we’ve been practicing, take some time now in between breaths to recall the most traumatic memory of your childhood.

Consider how it affected you, the mental or physical anguish, the lasting echoes that lingered into your adult life; the sneering looks upon their hateful faces.

Remember. This moment has no power over you. Focus, and let it go.

The Tragus is listening and the Tragus is attentive.

You may feel their shadowy presence in the room, sitting beside you or standing just over your shoulder. You may begin to find their offerings scattered about in the corners of your house.

If these offerings should disturb you, please reflect upon how they may have been intended as lessons to improve your sense of self.

As usual, when you’re ready, begin to speak. You may wish to reflect on how much progress you’ve made and how grateful you are to the Tragus for these achievements.

The tape clicks out.

SID WRIGHT:

This is Sid Wright.

And, well, here I am.

Back home in Puckham’s Weald.

We can talk about progress. You can talk about progress, Tragus, but the funny thing is - coming back to this town, you wonder if it’s capable of any kind of change at all.

I could swear that the local kids I drive past, hanging around at the neon arcade, smoking and glowering and occupying the entire width of the sidewalk as if it’s their own personal kingdom, as if they wouldn’t be torn to pieces in a heartbeat if they tried to any of this shit in the deeper city - I could swear that they’re just the same kids I left behind when I fled this place.

Maybe the children of the original. Sullen echoes. Ghosts unable to move beyond their parents’ confines.

Up on the crest of Puckham’s Climb, you can - it’s true - make out the skeletons of attempted new developments, glassy second homes and would-be hotel towers, begun and then swiftly abandoned over the long years.

The concrete ruin of their hubris fades pleasingly into the wooded ruin that lies all around.

This place resists progress. It always has.

Puckham himself was supposed to be the god of the mountain, I believe. He had a shrine right at the peak, a little stone bower where you could leave offerings for him.

Folks would talk proudly about the time long ago when city-slickers from Glottage - and I suppose I should get used to understanding myself as one of them, given just how many sour looks I get as I drive on in my stolen city car through the heart of the town - came to us threatening to build a new railway line that passed through the hills and through the forests.

Puckham sent an avalanche down to bury their works and their team of inspectors in rubble, and this was proof that the Weald could defend itself against any threat, and the day was celebrated as a feast in the heart of our town.

But Puckham liked to send avalanches more than anything, it seemed, and he didn’t pick his targets so well. Prospectors and goat-herds. Children playing in the canyons under the mountain.

He’d bury them all, year after year, and didn’t seem to care how we scolded him.

And by the time I was grown, Puckham’s churches had grown into ruin of their own and his prayers were no longer uttered in the bars of the Weald, and there was only a single hermit upon the peak of the mountain, hurling abuse down at the town that had fallen out of love with his god and beseeching Puckham to bury us all.

I don’t know if that hermit had a child to take his place, but there are no lights upon the peak now that I can see.

Down in the weald itself, the woods are just as deep and dark and inviting as they’ve always been.

You want to swing the wheel, go off-road, drown yourself in the darkness between the pines.

The family farm is out here somewhere.

I don’t think I could tell you the way if you asked me how to write it down, and every turning looks nearly the same in the night, but I make the correct call on each left and each right, and that’s pleasing in its own way.

Like there’s still some of this place in my bones. Like the body remembers.

(A little unhappy)

I do have to confess something. That’s what these tapes are meant to be about, right? Confession.

I used the Stupor again, on the road.

There was this gas station attendant, this bleary-eyed pimply kid slumped behind the counter.

I was wandering in amongst the shelves, looking for something, anything, that was fresh enough to eat - and this kid kept glancing sourly up at me and then back at the car, and I started to think, “She’s made you, Sidney. She recognises you. She’s gonna call the cops any second now, and then you’ll be taken in, or you’ll be shot.”

I kept wandering back and forth, keeping my eyes on the shelves, which were mostly empty, picking at the sunglasses and the bean-cans, and when I got close enough, I turned and I leapt at her. A running jump across the counter and knocking her down, and she was only terrified for a moment, so it wasn’t cruel.

I locked her in the back room, paid for my snacks and the gas, and I was walking back out to the car when it occurred to me - gods, maybe I was only kidding myself when I thought that she must have recognised me.

I’ve worked bad jobs in lonely places. When a customer comes in, of course you stare. It’s not like there’s anything else to do.

Maybe I just thought she looked tired, slumped like that over the counter.

Or maybe I just wanted to use the Voice again. Try it out, see if it gave me back my confidence.

Either way…it didn’t feel like it’s supposed to. I didn’t feel proud of myself.

I felt ashamed, if it was anything.

It’s the young people. I think that has to be it. First the young worker, now this kid.

There’s no pleasure in it, no sense that I’ve made any kind of positive difference. I feel like I’m cutting them off, not opening them up.

(Very upset)

I just find myself wondering why these young kids are all so tired, and why such drastic lengths are required to get them to rest.

(Waking up)

Ah. I’m here.

Lights are on. Jeanette must be home.

I don’t know what I’m going to say, exactly. I need her to understand that I’m not a threat, that whatever she’s heard on the news I’m still her brother and I still love her, I…

(A little desperate)

I need her to understand what I’ve seen, to give her a sense of that great truth, without putting her to sleep.

Any…any advice for me, Tragus?

FX: The roll of dice.

SID WRIGHT:

Okay, 18-12. Solution.

FX: Flick of a page.

SID WRIGHT:

(Reading aloud, with increasing frustration)

Take some time for mindful observation to relieve you from your frustration. Look at something in your immediate vicinity.

Do not commit to any action other than looking at the object. Observe it, do not comment upon it. Simply reflect upon its nature in silence.

If you are looking at a doorknob, you may wish to take note of how thoroughly doorknob-like it is.

Continue to look at the object until the process is complete.

If you still do not feel relieved or free of anguish by the time you have finished looking at the object, repeat the exercise with a secondary object nearby.

If no other suitable objects can be found-’

(Giving up)

Okay, that is it. I don’t know why I even bought this damned thing.

FX: SID flings the book to one side.

SID WRIGHT:

(Yelling)

I don’t know what I’m doing here!

I’ve done your work, haven’t I? I’ve spread your word!

So speak to me!

Tell me your name! Tell me who you are!

(Growing furious)

Give me answers or let me sleep!

Why won’t you-

JEANETTE:

(Muffled from outside the car)

Sid? Sid, is that you?

END OF EPISODE