This piece was written as a text transformation of Touching From A Distance, a biography of Joy Division vocalist written by his wife. It is my current coursework.


'¦See my true reflection,
Cut off my own connections'¦

The sky overhead is spattered with cottony clouds. Between the faded candy-floss there's a hauntingly familiar man-made streak of white scum. The plane trail cuts through the endless depth of the sky like a knife scarring skin. Just looking at where the aeroplane has been sends jolts down my spine. Bernard and Peter both go on about the American tour like it's going to be the best thing Joy Division ever did. As far as I'm concerned the only thing I ever wanted to do was make records. I wanted to make music that people would remember. I hate flying. I never asked for this American tour. It's a good thing I know I won't be going. I continue to gaze out the window, and while I look, can't help feeling bad for shunting Bernard's Saturday thing. I have important things to do, though.
I had to bleeding lie to Rob too. They don't think anything of it though; they take anything I say as God's word, just because I'm the lead bloody singer. I think they'd expect me to throw a fit if I didn't get my way. I never wanted people to pity me, to have to rely on them. To take medication every day for the rest of my life. I never really wanted to drive but now I can't.
The countryside is starting to turn to the industrial edges of Macclesfield. I never noticed before how bleak it looks to outsiders. Annik would be scared. I told Debbie I'd be home today. When I look at the gradually clouding sky, I wonder if she will actually be there to see me. She didn't sound too happy about it. Then again, she hasn't sounded happy to hear from me for a long time. I wonder if she still loves me, despite herself, even if I don't feel anything anymore. She's still my wife. She isn't ashamed of my fits like Annik.

'¦I can see life getting harder,
So sad is this sensation'¦

When the train pulls up at the station, I sit and hum David Bowie's 'Rock and Roll Suicide' and watch the other passengers stampede past me like blind, stupid, bloody animals. They are all rushing somewhere, anywhere. Don't they realise that there's nothing to rush for? I don't understand the fascination people have with dull days. They don't understand that you're dying from the day you are born.

'¦Reverse the situation,
I can't see it getting better'¦

Pulling up outside the house feels strange. Macclesfield has always been the same, industrial and smelling like petrol fumes, yet somehow it looks more tired than I remember, more tired than me. All those fights we used to have about money almost make sense for a second. Debbie's wrong though. Money isn't important, none of these everyday things matter. I always wanted life to be magic. It never failed to disappoint.

'¦I'll walk you through the heartbreak,
Show you all the out takes'¦

Seeing Debbie again feels so odd to me. She looks at me as if she doesn't know me, and I don't feel like I know her anymore. She works in waitressing now. I never liked the idea of her being out of my reach and it feels like I've lost something I always thought I'd have. She tells me that she's working all weekend except for Sunday and that our daughter is staying at her parents' house. I let all this wash over me, feeling the familiar heavy murmur around me of people talking. The low wall-lights in the bar cast an eerie half glow over everything, and it doesn't seem real. Debbie doesn't want me to look after our daughter while she works. I can see the mistrust in her eyes. I don't blame her, I don't even trust myself around our only child. I never have. I was always afraid that I'd hurt her because of the epilepsy. Sometimes the fact that she barely knows me sticks like pins in my head.

'¦I can't see it getting higher,
Systematically degraded'¦

Werner Herzog. The man would rather shoot himself than choose between the two women in his life. First one, then the other. First Debbie, then Annik. The floor is littered with coffee mugs. If Debbie thinks anything about it when she arrives, she doesn't say anything. We are arguing again. I want her to drop the divorce. It's a stupid bloody idea and she doesn't need to bother. To be honest, I can't imagine life without Debbie. She's been there so long. Maybe I am having an affair, maybe I have fallen in love with Annik, but a bleeding divorce is ridiculous. She tells me that I'll change my mind by morning. I tip one of the coffee cups when I'm pacing about. The thick, congealed mixture fails to escape the lip of the upturned mug. She looks at me like I'm barmy and says she'll stay the night.

'¦Emotionally a scapegoat,
I can't see it getting better'¦

By the time I hear her car pull up I know what I'm going to say. I'll get the train to Manchester at ten in the morning, I say, and she'd better stay away until then. I expect her to argue, she usually does. I see the front door slam behind her and it echoes with a refrain of finality. I think I wanted Debbie to argue. I think about shouting after her. Instead I just stand there in the hallway where she left me and listen to her car snort and chug as she drives away. We used to go to gigs together. Lou Reed when I liked jazz and that awful French festival. It never worked, though we always thought it would. I swear loudly to myself. The house smells strange. There's no lingering cigarette fumes. I take a packet out of my pocket. There's only one left. I snap the cigarette and all the tobacco flickers to the carpet.

'¦Perverse and unrealistic,
Try to make it all sick'¦

More coffee. More mugs that I knock with my toes as I pass through the living room. No coffee left. The pantry holds whiskey and I feel like a bad child taking it. There's not much left, but I don't need it. The numbing alcohol is merely a luxury, an effect for show. There's a pile of records in this house. My records. I used to relish bringing home a new pressing, but after a while, they lost their flavour and I gave them away. When the needle plucks gently against the vinyl of Iggy Pop's 'Idiot' I know I've savoured the very best of it. I need those pictures now. Lifting them gently off the wall I set them both in front of me at the kitchen table. My daughter gazes at me from her frame, and the petrified recollection of my wife Debbie and I on my wedding day stands beside it. Now for a pen.

'¦I can't see it getting better,
Hollow now, I'm burned out'¦

The letter sprawls and cobwebs under the nib of the pen, in the same scruffy capitals all my song notes are in. I tell her most things. Things about me, she knows how I feel about life. I do wish I were dead. Life lost its flavour, just like the records. Things about us, how I still love her, but I can't quite talk to her. How I love my daughter. I even write that I hate Annik. I don't hate Annik. I never hated anyone. My request of some time alone, because I find this whole thing difficult is all too real. I don't feel any guilt about all of this. This is my swansong. I think about my childhood heroes. Jim Morrison and James Dean. Everyone always thought I was crazy for following the footsteps of dead men. I was the odd one out. The boy with nail varnish. The last thing I write in my letter for her is more of a statement than a resurgence of memory. I tell Debbie that I can hear the birds singing. The sun is up. The start of a new day. I think this one will be better.

'¦All I need to break out,
I can't see life getting higher'¦

After Christmas in 1979, Joy Division went on their European tour, going back into the studio in spring to work on the follow-up to 'Unknown Pleasures'. They released 'Love Will Tear Us Apart' in April, and with momentum building in the US they were due to take off for their first ever tour of the States shortly after.
They never went. Vocalist Ian Curtis hanged himself in his kitchen on May 18th 1980, two days before the flight. The day Ian died, Joy Division ceased to exist, leaving only a legacy of music behind. Ian got his wish, immortalised like his heroes. His monologue finally complete, there would be no encore.

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