August 26th, 2003



... and more and more I just feel the need to write something, to say something, to reassert my existence.

It is very hard to see a black cat in a dark room, especially when it is not there. It is for this reason, primarily, that I rail against the darkness; although other reasons will from time to time make their influence felt. I am a tree which is loudly and resolutely falling in a wood, in the hope that somebody will hear. I am, I am, I am. Send not to know for whom this bell tolls.

This crude conceit bores me.

* * *

Every thing that I see is saturated with meaning and otherness; the whole world reeks of it. I am sinking in this quagmire of things that are not me, things that denote other things. There are several distinct and overlapping classes of things, of which some are:

  • Things which can be described and explained.
  • Things which hurt.
  • Things which have not been venerated.
  • Things which will not complain.
  • Things which can be wrapped in brown paper.
  • Things which hold us or are held by us.
  • Things which can be used to open boxes, doors and discussions.
  • Things which are remembered.
  • Things which other people have noted and classified.
  • Things which we taste with parts of the body other than our mouths.
  • Things which have never been lost.
  • Things which are too small to be worth eating.
  • Things which are too big to see.

There exist also numerous other classes of thing which are extremely important and consequently will not be described here.

I would like to work in a room full of books which do not symbolise anything. I would like to pick these books up and put them in groups according to their colour or perhaps their weight. I would like to know their smell as well as I know the scent of my own body. I would like to be able to look down and see my own hands clearly even when they are not touching anything.

I know that I am not the only person who sometimes forgets the names of things, because names are fitted with insufficient small fastening devices (which should be kept out of the reach of children, the insane, and people who are prone to choking). For this reason I know that it should not be shameful when I forget how to say a glass or a star or a house or a cappucino or a skirting-board or a thing that whirrs when you, a thing that rings like a bell when it, a thing that never fails to. But somehow I am always back in this same place holding a map that I cannot read. I consider worshipping the map instead of reading it.

So shall we meet as we always meet, in a place designed for waiting? Shall we say that this is a place for eating, and that is a place for praying, and here right here is a place for the other thing that we require? We will draw circles and lines on the ground between us and call it home.
  • Current Mood

beer, coffee, cocktails, egg, kitten

It was lovely to see hoiho looking a bit more perky this evening, even if he turned out to be still ill enough that he couldn't finish a burger or a pint. I managed a treacle pudding but struggled to finish the second pint of Old Hooky. The beer is still sitting uneasily on my stomach, but the company was comforting.

On my way home from the Carlton I found half an eggshell on the pavement. It was startlingly, eerily white in the darkness. I took it home, and it almost seemed to glow in the darkness of the passage from Hale Avenue to Frenchs Road. All the way home I was frightened that I would crush it, perhaps stumbling on a tree-root or tripping on a stone or simply moving my clumsy hand too suddenly. Frightened, too, that when I saw it in the light it would turn out to be dull and greyish, like the glistening jewels snatched from the sea-bed or shoreline which when examined at home turn out to be lifeless chunks of dusty rock.

I also encountered two cats on the way home. One of them was a comfortably and sedately fat black and white moggy, which sniffed me, rubbed its head against my ankles, and then went to rub its head (with no less enthusiasm) against a nearby gatepost. The message was clear: I was superfluous. The other was a tiny skittish kitten, which darted back and forth between my legs as I crouched to stroke it, licked my hand, pawed it, and then bit it with tiny needling teeth. Again I felt that I had been weighed in the balance, but this time I was left unsure as to whether or not I had been found wanting.

The eggshell was still gleaming white in the artificial light of the house. I put it down carefully while I made myself some decaffeinated coffee.

Only one thing remained to make my evening complete: I needed to know which cocktail best represented my personality. Of course. Collapse )
  • Current Mood