Saturday, 26 February 2005


The steady decline of volume as radio turned down, reading letters now.

The old volumes don’t tell the truths that I remember (truths being a telling, no more). I contain an element of them, but the core is not present within them. Language in this case is a windowpane upon a scene, an irritating child upon a knee. I hear murmuring from beyond the wall, the rattle of a neighbours voice and struggle to concentrate as a consequence. I am tired beyond exemption.

The letters tell of a conscious dismissal of events.

Years ago, I took to spending evenings under the real canopy of foliage, grey, but green through association, and sodden with layers of clothing to distance the cold’s bite. I dreamt and wept in peace away from the prophets and demons. This was a room not my own but it belonged to no other.

Months ago, under the frame of a large kitchen window and the infusion of mouldy and unkempt living, I became friend and enemy, using up valuable resource.

Weeks ago, I came to rest in a room with tiny lights above my eyes and great trees of furniture all around me, the gentle hum of electricity in the corner and old love sleeping away in a corner. Ten hours later it was the day.

Some nights ago, I dreamt in a triangle loft, my fatigue singing sweetly as I fell into the night and I woke to fresh coffee bubbling me into a sense of endurance. The cigarettes came one by one and left the same.

Two nights ago I slept at a place I had visited before where we had talked till sixes and sevens, curled around the cold on a damp sofa bed, heeding the aluminium frame’s curses, and I slept long and secure only waking when woken.

Last night I was bound in raptures of pain. For hours I was drowned underneath visions and spectrums and preaching. The headaches twisted behind my eyes and my sleep buckled with torment. The room was speared by broken light from the street, sweeping across my bed like clock hands as vehicles sped past in the night.

I slept in my own bed last night.

This morning I read letters. They have more to say, I plan to steal them into fiction. I no longer write letters, I excuse myself with time restraints and abstinence from social activities. However, I shall write letters again, open letters full of other people’s lives, other peoples lives and swearing and lies.

No comments: