Thursday 30 June 2011

Bad wisdom - aphorism 2

"The past is a broken escalator, it's apparent stability makes it all the more hazardous."

Wednesday 29 June 2011

Bad wisdom - aphorism 1

...that night I went to sleep with a multitude of thoughts, all of them nonsense. A random assortment of verbs and nouns, a pick n mix of quasi-wisdom, just waiting to be scooped into the paper bag of tomorrow, only to be carelessly ripped open by mid-morning; a sugary snack for elevenses...


"Leave to the cupboard, the custard, the butter, the mayonnaise; for only water, smooth and pure, has the viscocity of life."




Sunday 26 June 2011

More words on waking

morning broke like a vase

like a crème brûlée

like a deleuzian egg

an exclusive story

like a window wrapped round a body

like a small clay pot made in primary school

a chalked blackbored stressed teacher

a heart, a glass, a high e string

a tradition, a perdition, a peircing ring

morning broken:

a pellucid canvas dripping moisture.

Tuesday 21 June 2011

Sunday



Sunday struck with impertinence, an overzealous neighbour with a chainsaw. The toils of last night roused a plenitude of demons to torment my nightly rest, and i could not have wished it to be over sooner. But though dawn broke and plastered my pale walls with a strip of orange, my eyes remained fastened. As the morning began it was no longer the demons of sleep that would prolong my discomfort, but the prospects of the waking hours of Sunday. No longer would my eyes stay glued to the back of my head, peering into the chaotic darkness of the unconscious, the strangely welcoming and comforting landscape of nonsensical narratives, people i recognise occupying places i do not.


The day had to be dealt with. My stomach turned at the sight of breakfast, A coffee was all that could be managed. My bedroom seemed most inhabitable, as if all potential sitting spots were occupied by unwelcome visitors, the rancid memories that pinned themselves to the furniture. I turned in disgust, left the house. I had no plans, and instead left the decision to the objects upon my person. No wallet, no phone. Four pound sixteen in change and a travelcard.


It was one of those stubborn self-satisfied days. One unchanging character for the duration: overcast, take it or leave it. Today the sun only existed as a point of fact, in earlier times we would have thought it dead or angry. At the same time, prospects for rain looked slim, the sky seemed to lack the energy to make the effort. I cared not for rain today, it would not matter. I would not be cold, i had a jacket. Rain on me if you dare, i will dry given time.

I wondered if my travelcard bore me any financial recompense. Had i funds? Begone, travelcard, i said as i walked, you offend me. A wonderful realisation had horizoned, that truth that defined the line 'twixt Catford and Waterloo East. No barriers, free journey. and i vowed to seize this fortune, for it might be my last. to the station!


The park i crossed has been refurbished. young trees stand helped up with sticks and wire, slides and swings sit on protective rubber surfaces. the river has been artificially realigned in an attempt to bring it back from the previous artificial straightening which just looked too manmade. the manmade of now has to be disguised, the hyperreality of landscape redevelopment. a new park for the community, to offset the anger felt at government spending and deepening insecurity and inequality.


And into the backside of Catford, as if there is a part of it which does not merit the term 'backside'. At the station the touch-in plinth where my money would be inhaled taunted me as i approached, but i refused to be drawn into a confrontation, and passed indignantly. no violence or bad language was expended, just disregard. The train was bleak, empty except for a few Sunday travellers, all looking aimless, occupying this strange respite from two sandwiched weeks of labour.


This route takes us scenically north to London Bridge, rising above ground level to peer into the contemporary flats which overlook Greenwich. They watch lunchtime Sunday tv as the roast bubbles in the oven, at least that's what i expect. I wondered, as the gent opposite peered into the financial times and cleared his throat, when, if ever, a roast might be presented to me on some distant future wholesome Sunday.


But today was not that day. Waterloo's sky was no less bleak than Catford's, but i strode past the barriers with a sunny satisfaction. Free travel encourages travel, i realised today, for i had no purpose in Waterloo, no purpose whatsoever. Central London greeted me with traffic, litter, and glances of indifference; a antidote to quell all ails that confounded me this Sunday morn. I banished them to the peripheries of my mind, to only be apprehended in the proper circumstances: an untidy bedroom as the light fades.


Time's haste found new fuel this afternoon. Every time i glanced at one of the glowing clocks fastened to Nineteenth century buildings the best part of an hour had passed. Space seemed to turn as i willed it, the whim of my ambling reconstituting the landscape around me. I refrained from making decisions, instead allowing directions to present themselves. I never turned around, never looked both ways before crossing.


The sky was darkening like a flat panel light with struggling batteries. i hastened back to Waterloo. Back onto the train, back amongst the same aimless travellers, everyone going in reverse.


I sit here recalling Sunday, the holiday from the walls i am captive to, the walls at which i stare, rethinking my vocabulary. Is vocabulary the most appropriate word, i have the luxury to question. Rethinking is one thing, the deferral of the inevitable pastime of thinking. The holiday is over now, until the demons of wake are overwhelmed by those of sleep.