I have no idea
where to start
A week now, of this, a week. Coming to fruition over coffees during a vocal lunch and watching the street, tiny cobbled rundown from the main thoroughfare, just before work. Started off with hesitancy and then careered straight into the topic of the day, and all the nonsense of relationships and the thought that I am supposed to care. The questions they answer for themselves, simply by asking!
The weather has been miserable and then glorious in epileptic jumps, neutralising my nervous system, which leaps from the crumpled linens of bed, into a lover’s arms, and then back into bed again as quick as that. In the meantime, I find time whilst sleeping to visit friends and earn a wage, minimum but satisfactory, always the thrill of a new constancy. Speaking too quickly.
I have constructed and composed today, the clean intake of creativity exposing itself as physical sculpture, musical sonata, literary exile. Finished a book too, the title elsewhere, dumped onto the vain list of still-sobbing intellectualism, a gentle laugh in a meadow now again, the road purring people past me and into homes. My hedonism has paused today for its first breath, and can’t stop falling headlong into blissful savageries and miscalculations of time
The door’s unbolting, the time has come for the stunted conversation, I speak twice as fast to finish twice as quickly and then return to writing.
Another wedding this weekend, more happy happy happy. Summer’s arrival, my dedication on the wane, but am approaching real projects at last, the hopeless affirmation of a holiday, fraught in tension, the subject released and still not the direct response that my timely motivator has been looking for.
There’s nothing for it, I‘m afraid! Nothing!