drawn from memory

Lying on your sofa, my legs bent question marks, all the potential arguments collecting in my head, forming a full stop, dripping from my finger to the ashtray by the phone…The hesistant reach towards the past which is a television screen, or more accurately a mirror, the image drawn with pencil and through tracing paper…The motif for the current mood is “that which is tangible”.

Southern Crescent is unusual, in that the houses and the people do not comfortably fit within the surroundings, although the nature of development around that area would point to the newer houses not fitting in to the existing lives. Indeed the larger detached houses are the more evocative for memory and mood; they suggest cold lemonade, and the scent of lamb, or chicken, and the sound of acceptable if bland music (no guitar solos). The newer houses are from the post-war period, are terraced, gardens but no plants, meeting places for cats. Dog turd on the paving slabs like disgarded socks in a bedroom. Possibly their own bedrooms. Musical letterboxes play ‘Morning Has Broken’, although the battery is almost dry: the sound is dischordent and broken.

Other issues flitter through the mind, but do not draw words towards the fingers. My hands rest above the keyboard as though unable to press the keys without clear and consice instructions. Matters of the heart and mind, nothing to shatter the earth. Just the background noise, occasionaly lifting the pages of a diary I largely ignore, reminding me of the music once made. A lonely symphony drawn from memory, left in the darkness hiding from the brightest of lights.

Blood [Part II: Don’t start what you cannot finish]

Or else, should the phrase be, “…cannot complete”? A linguist could explain the difference.

Words of truth, last night, from the heart. Not rehearsed, as may have once have occurred. My mind has been wrestling with the lack of a negative to counterbalance the positive, to such a degree that the only conclusion to consider is the kindness of Fate has been some form of interest free loan.

Through the bedroom window, then, blue sky and the sense of a cold wind. And last night words of emotion, taken from a sense of spontaneity.

From the hours spent worrying about reading in public the words from within these blog entries I now find myself, many moon phases since, unable to phrase thoughts in a similar manner. My walking round town (here, and elsewhere) has been accompanied by a running commetary spoken in the ‘poetic style’, a form of conscious concern, perhaps. Trying to return to a genuine sense of emotion is difficult if it is sensed to be over-rehearsed. Whose judgement am I worried about, in this context?

Blood [Part I: Clouds of notable shape]

The feeling from opening up a pay-slip immediately following a salary increase.
Recognising the sound of falsehood in a voice, but not letting on.
Unintentional rhymes in speech or writing.
Ending a conversation on a handshake, or a kiss.

Whilst setting down these four highlights, if I can call them that, there was no intention to spell out “TRUE” on the left margin. One has to assume it a coincidence, but a happy one, and as subtle a sign of…something as a horoscope or fortune cookie. These are the ‘hunt out the funnies’ type moments.

Reminders of real life fluttered through the letterbox. Dealing with them can occur at some later point; too much of the fantasy (if not so more accurately ‘unreal’) occurs in the waking hours.

battles can be lost but the war may yet be won

Truth and the absence of truth…No, indeed the truth has found an unusual weaponry. The muddled but beautifully crafted panoply, heavily resting on the shoulders and behind the knees: these forced memories which drift into grey, or move further from my mind’s eye, into images like television screens viewed through frosted glass.

Forcing memories for the sake of it may well prove detrimental to the general health of this man. If I concentrate…My mother, sister and I, in the kitchen, making a reicipie from a children’s book, which didn’t explain how to save food if the contents of a mixing bowl curdled…What an otherwise inconsequential memory to save, without an introduction or conclusion; just a scene, partly frozen, moving as though the reel is damaged, jarring against its machinery.

Further forward, then, to a corridor in school. Evocative recollection of the windows, designed so as to look like graph paper had been traced upon each. Miss Fraser critisicing my decision (conscious, I suppose now) to hide my hymn book up my trouser leg. Again the days and months have stolen the context, leaving only the frozen image of her face, maybe the floor as my eyes rested away from the glare: the brown floor, so cold for stocking feet.

Drink and drugs have smothered the memory, in a way perhaps denied by campaigners who wish all drugs to be free from scientific claims of long-term problems. Ice-cream scoops of memory have left dark holes where diary pages and captured photographs used to reside. Those skies which seem so much more perfect, still, blue, to these tired eyes, accustomed to the grey between the start and end of each working day.

Following the darker silences of argument I wonder if the use of old escape plans are misunderstood due to their out-dated, maybe even childish, outward appearance can only be misinterpreted. Footsteps towards the conclusions not matching the evidence. But I cannot judge. My glasshouse must not be littered by stones (and there are no signs in the desert which say…no, sorry, you probably already know this one…)

alternative lyrics

Context is all. The cold, dark outside only appears so upsetting in its stark contrast to the weekend because of my own “director’s eye”, which sees the angles and the shadows and the framing of this life as it would seem on screen. Maybe there is a nihilism here hitherto not appreciated. I believe what I am told, which means the sometime hours later analysis is somewhat devalued.

On the walk to work, the orgy of ordinariness. I can imagine the lights behind curtains, the clicking of switches: kettles, hair straighteners, radios. The slight return of older memories, of kitchens in the time before, the crackling kitchen radio, which was red but before which was silver, a cheese-grater style grill through which I would listen to quiz shows, plays, and later John Peel in the dark on a pillow.

Context, then. From one angle the view is fairly horrific. There are signs and clear evidence of behaviour which I cannot refute even if the claims are themselves difficult to prove. Whilst all this develops my understanding of everything switches, alters. A lack of confidence which is taken as guilt (or an absence of proof otherwise…). In the dreams fire and flames consume everything and threaten to destroy even railway platforms and restaurants. My characteristic reaction is analysis but maybe the fire and the railway platforms and the maps detailed with the tiniest writing are all mere memories, thrown together into a hazy narrative through the muddled drawing of such lines by the blind face of conscious.

The effect of such contrasts is unsettling. It upsets and I lack the will and strength to fully comprehend what is being done, and how, and the reasons why. From this current position I find it difficult to understand why smiles and kisses and feelings of love are so easily swamped, washed away, by the sudden switching of position or place. Everything has a place but perhaps not everything has rhythm. This is another problem. But I am not strong enough to argue so until this is rectified, I know my place.

uprising of the social chameleon

The “master plan” concept, all the talk of ‘fate’ and ‘fortune’. It feels like someone taking their fingers to your neck, just a slight touch but enough to unease, to buckle the knees, to introduce the slightest spark of fear to your mind…My mind should not accept such ‘friend requests’, to coin a phrase…

From the pub, a look at the clock (I liked the angle I had chosen to check the time; it would have made a decent photograph). Things to do when you’re [dead] bored in Preston, and all that, so I walked, through the smattering of crowds and what-not. Taxis, stopping, starting, like they seem to do in computer games. Through and beyond.

She met me with a hug, warm enough, possibly even genuine. But a few hurried words of self-promotion from her later, and that was me done for the night. Downhill, actually quite literally. Injection of the very slightest drop of sharp balsamic and the sauce is ruined; similarly, I found the most subtle reminder of difference between me and another, and I am gone wayward for the duration. It will never be broken, these links, these uneven footpaths I walk…

In conclusion, comparing myself with the lives (or writings) of others will always result in a total collapse of confidence. And it hurts so deeply, hurts as fierce as love, that I cannot envisage a time in which I will have been able to swim far enough out from its shore.

Today’s motif is the mouth.

chicken soup

A voice within, assisted by a person without….

I shall sit here, then, just here, my name
a scrawl in your desk diary;
much unlike the heavy prose in my own diaries, I would guess…

You did not catch me, then, teenaged and guilty,
witnessing Orion from this awkward angle;
his belt as straight across the night as reflected, doubled lightposts

Clock ticking, clock ticking, I could attach
words, thoughts, to the beat, but…You did not catch me, did you,
lips moving to thoughts, reading out the invisible…

Those diaries, with their days and their months,
which I do not recognise as mine; though should I claim ownership
your assumptions…

No, I digress.

And those years….their slogans and anniversaries, taking me through time but not
advancing at all,

all the chicken soup for the soul which
sits as a spirit in the cold.

And endlessly, as through these days turns the wind,
regrets as heavy as rhythm,
I will apologise, for the freedom with which I treat context,
is otherwise styled contempt:
but if my accent does not betray my heritage
I do not know what will.