Distant fires glow, embers fading with each increment of the oncoming dawn. What use is it remembering dreams or their echoes? Waking used to be easy and now, amongst the loud mechanics of the lawnmower’s blades (they are gardening in the courtyard below the kitchen and bedroom windows) and the wails of sirens, it seems much more difficult.
A slight air of dread today, a blank day, a Monday. The day in which houses are to be put in order, missives sent, conversations begun. If it is true and I am only to have a month here before returning and reconsidering, then I must make the month.
Passages of the novel are really coming together now and writing is taking a form I know well, like the periods in the writing of an essay when all the word-processed notes which, in their blocks, were written chronologically and without thought for structure – that is written as an elaboration of a single point – start becoming joined.
And tonight, which will no doubt be as hot as last night, I will play to a small crowd in that cobbled basement over in Kreuzberg. Drones, dictaphones, song, no dance.
All pales though in the face of news international, Istanbul’s shopping centre the focus of attacks leaving scores dead. This following India’s spate of bombings, the reported rise in Irish Republican dissident action, Iraqi suicide missions. Versions of histories, both retrospective and forward-looking, are central to ideas of liberation, terrorism and national interest and are being played out with tragic consequence across the plazas of the world. These are times in which words are hard to justify and the clamour around the prime-minister and his supposed loss of the cabinet seem barely worth the column inches they command.