and then all history is destroyed…

I feel as though history has been betrayed, personal and in the wider world. Those echoes from people I no longer like, or have never liked, never known. Those words told as advice or insults, now picked up by the mumbled voice inside the head. Sense and reason slightly mocking, all the more hurtful when the fall is greater. I cannot prove much personal thought over the previous two months, the pages of my diary remaining blank.

Unfortunately, my confidence has been dealth another blow. Not fatal, I note that life is not that cruel. Lessons are not learned, it would seem. Or lessons are not recognised as such at the time. Only later, on the train home, or the quiet solitude of a day separated by many phases of the moon. The false solace, such as it is. More than a quantum, if you will.

One day I will be tripped up for good, stuck in the mud, trapped by the tide. One day, my words will be left unspoken. History is now left unwritten, soon my voice too will be silenced. And then all personal history would be destroyed.

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deep shadow

The city is frozen, still, quiet. There are no flashing neon lights. There are distant shouts and calls, the sliding wet tyres from passing cars. No drum beats. There is no breeze. The city is sleeping in the night.

Nervousness melts into the beer, into the glass, through the windows from…

….

Iceland

The stones are cold, dirty, moss-covered, like the pebbles on a beach. Like balls of dough arranged on a baking tray, in a house of long-ago forgotten times. They are as warm to the touch. Underneath, though, is not a thin layer of butter.

It should have been obvious, really, that I would have to face the possibility of death during my journeys through family history. Unexpected stark truth, though, there’s the rub. A child wiped out from history through just some clicks on a computer screen, as easily as the assasination of a character in a novel. As if she had not existed at all. I cannot mourn for her as a member of my own family, not quite, and yet…An unusual feeling rests on my mind, it reminds me of the heavy clouds which effect the mind following a bad job interview or the empty silence which comes after a bad punchline. “It’s all about the tag,” says the old sage. It is all about death, unfortunately, so coldly administered in plain black text.

I was not expecting the next character in “The Great World Financial Headache” to be Iceland. It is almost quaint, funny. One great stand from an unexpected quarter. Deadly serious, of course. The Icelandic Prime Minister – whose name sounds like Kier Hardie, but isn’t – has the appearance of a bank manager with a headcold. He made a cold, barely hidden threat about the new powers in the world a few days ago when he said that, when the West does not help, “you make new friends”. In the case of Iceland the “new friend” is Russia. And we all know how they like to ensure the West are reminded of the power in their muscles.

My worry is of storms we cannot control. Of all the graphs pointing further down, deeper into the ground, through our skins, our muscles, our flesh. Of arrowheads tipped with poison, of percentage signs used as handcuffs. The nightmare freezes the most tiny text from the thick columns in the financial pages into icy shards of glass, which shatter from the sheets of iced newspapers, cut through the hands, slices the eyes, digs under the skin…The nightmare turns the positives into negatives. Remember where you came from…

building stories, storey by storey

We are all communists now…

The graphs are blank faces, reproduced in the newspapers as extreme versions of ‘spot the ball’ competitions. Red lines as deep wounds, frowns as deep as wide; arrowheads towards graph lines without markers or numbers. All meaning implied. “Downturn” and “bailout” are the twin terrors towering over us all, shadows of their giant destruction captured on the wind as shadows of doom. A new depression reaching out stride by stride.

September is a bleak month. September is a blank month. My diary gathers dust in its home. I wonder for what reason, or from which cause. Boredom, per chance, or else addiction to denial.

My real feelings can never be written here, but this is a ‘known known’. There are changes, alterations, there are feelings I cannot write anywhere. My own enveloped constraint. I do not know why my diary has been locked away, with each day passing as blank as the last. The reasons could be simple. I wonder about fear, concern, shame. Or something less subtle. Waves of consequence crash upon the shore. More than love.

The real truth waits in the wings, waiting for its cue. The arguments we have are fake, themselves staged, no doubt carried out with words rehearsed on walks home or waiting over the kettle or channel flicking. All out of luck.

I cannot see the picture in its entirity any more. The old diaries would sing about the domino effect, the knowledge of consequence and the fragility of photographs. Presently the real concern seems slighter, more narrow. Something is missing, like the knowledge of one mis-placed jigsaw piece in a puzzle of a thousand. There will no doubt me more of this later…