And the clock shifted into British Summer Time. Chronology shifted forward by an hour. We miss an hour, but the lighter evenings make it feel as if it is longer. A week of disorientation always follows turning the clocks forward. Memories and nostalgia. Echoes of a future? Perhaps.
White skies. Almost glowing. Rain walking home last night. My trilby hat soaked through. Almost dry now. Ten hours of sleep last night. Feverish dreams. Trapped in a house besieged by zombies. Not as horrifying as it might sound -I was quite enjoying it. Trapped in a house with a madman -not enjoying that one so much.
A clothes shop shutting down. Never even knew it was there. Six jackets for a pound each. Second-hand joy. I mean, a leather jacket for a pound? Ridiculous. Tom and myself return to the office pleased with our purchases. Spend the afternoon not listening to calls and trying on various jackets we have bought.
Tom finds a pound coin in one of his, but has to give it to me because he lost a bet that Ann and Claire -new starters at work- were mother and daughter.
And tonight, leaving work. The wind is up, strong and wild. Have to fold my hat into my bag for fear of losing it. Glimpses of the sea between the buildings. A white layer of cloud hazing the horizon line of the twilight sea. A fog coming? A storm coming?
Whatever is coming -or is here- seems to have turned back time. Walking back, it feels more like October than March. Not a bad thing, as I love autumnn. I love spring as well. One of the reasons I love both seasons is that they both seem so transient and changeable. Warm one day, cool the next. Interchangeable too. Autumn days that feel like spring. March that feels like October.
Last month a February summer, tonight an October spring.
Autumn stream running over the sleeping springs of river beds.
Perhaps.
The air is heavy with time tonight. This evening feels ancient, a deep, heavy feeling. The ticking of a grandfather clock, a bell tolling from a cathedral submerged in the sea.
An October spring opening up.
It feels we are on the verge of something, but what I don't know.
Tuesday 30 March 2010
Saturday 27 March 2010
Joys of a Lukewarm Cold
Yesterdays hangover necessitated an early bedtime - 5:00pm if I remember rightly. After a night of deep and restless dreams, I woke this morning shortly before the alarm at 8:00am.
I was still feeling ill, and the headache and sore throat, and slight discomofrt in the nose area, has led me to conclude I may, in fact, have some kind of cold. This is a novelty for me. I had a cold at Christmas for about a day, but I can't remember the last time I had a cold.
This does not feel like it will be a particularly bad or heavy cold. In fact, there are hardly any physical symptoms at all, just a vague feeling of not being well, and a slightly higher than normal temperature. There are, however, the accompanying mental symptoms which are far more interesting.
That feeling of being spaced out is evident, of feeling very, very daydream-y. I'm doing some overtime on a Saturday, and walking from the office across the call floor is interesting. Everyone takes on a slightly unreal cast, as if they are moving too fast, or are figures in a dream.
Interesting.
I am alone in the office, sat in the black leather chair. The fan is on, and attempting to cool me down. It makes a very soporific sound, all drawn out like the sea or a distant motorway...
Strangely enough, despite being mildly ill, I have done more work than I would do on a normal day.
Ah well.
The joys of a lukewarm cold.
I was still feeling ill, and the headache and sore throat, and slight discomofrt in the nose area, has led me to conclude I may, in fact, have some kind of cold. This is a novelty for me. I had a cold at Christmas for about a day, but I can't remember the last time I had a cold.
This does not feel like it will be a particularly bad or heavy cold. In fact, there are hardly any physical symptoms at all, just a vague feeling of not being well, and a slightly higher than normal temperature. There are, however, the accompanying mental symptoms which are far more interesting.
That feeling of being spaced out is evident, of feeling very, very daydream-y. I'm doing some overtime on a Saturday, and walking from the office across the call floor is interesting. Everyone takes on a slightly unreal cast, as if they are moving too fast, or are figures in a dream.
Interesting.
I am alone in the office, sat in the black leather chair. The fan is on, and attempting to cool me down. It makes a very soporific sound, all drawn out like the sea or a distant motorway...
Strangely enough, despite being mildly ill, I have done more work than I would do on a normal day.
Ah well.
The joys of a lukewarm cold.
Thursday 25 March 2010
Springtime Afternoon
Spring rain. Wet white skies. Thinking of cathedrals in lost English villages, and the sounds of rivers in the night. Want to go out walking through a labyrinth of ragged hedgerows, a maze of spinneys, a conspiracy of coppiced woods. Rest in the shadows of ramshackle barns in forgotten afternoons, time suspended. Been here forever. Dry stone walls and hidden streams, undecipherable bird shapes in the sky, and the distance ever near.
Alone in the office, sound of the call centre-just outside my door, voices in the room next door. Feel that if my focus slips, I'll daydream the afternoon away.
Alone in the office, sound of the call centre-just outside my door, voices in the room next door. Feel that if my focus slips, I'll daydream the afternoon away.
Tuesday 23 March 2010
What the Day Reminds me of
The kind of day outside the office window that reminds me of being back at university. The second house in Bransford Road, Worcester. Mid-Spring. 13 years ago. Skies all white and hot and wet. At least from inside. An essay to finish. An essay to start really, never mind finish. Books on the reading list still half read. Drifting to sleep on my bed in that narrow room.
That's what the day reminds me of anyway.
That's what the day reminds me of anyway.
Monday 22 March 2010
A Near-Miss Memory, a Nearly Deja-Vu
I think it was the curve of the road that did it. A sharp sweep to the right, lined by five or six leafless poplar trees. Looked to my right, a long stretch of sunset tinged grass leading to Blatchington Mill School with the adjoining Windmill Theatre.
Spring air. Equinox evening. A near memory.
Met up with Andy yesterday afternoon, a long meandering walk around Hove Park, passing the petrol station I had spent five years working in. Busy Sunday, all petrol and cars. Glad I wasn't there any more. Cut down to the beach, then met Sarah outside the Wick at 4:30pm.
She was taking some flowers to the Windmill Theatre for someone to give to the choreographer at the end of a ballet performance. We walked up with her, back past Hove Park and the petrol station. Memorioes of only a few hours before.
Cut through suburbia. Nevill Road. A long wasteland of houses. Nothing more. A windmill glimpsed between the buildings. A church looking like a Southern American mission.
Walked up the entrance to the theatre / school. Walking round that curve, under those leafless poplars...
A sudden image, like a memory but not, like deja-vu, but not... I was reminded of something. Going to school? Maybe. A Grey day. Early morning. Rain. Black clouds and the street lamps in the distance still burning. Dead of winter. People wrapped up against the rain. Umbrellas and scarves. Rain hammering down like footsteps.
That was it really. It wasn't deja-vu, as it wasn't accompaned by that feeling of coming revelation that deja-vu always brings. It was more akin to being reminded of a memory one has never had.
A school in the rain.
A curving path.
A line of poplar trees.
It is that strange time of year anyway. The evenings grow longer, now past the equinox, and British Summer Time next weekend. The air has begun to taste of spring, all electric, optimistic yet vulnerable.
The dark days of winter are starting to seem a long time ago now.
Spring air. Equinox evening. A near memory.
Met up with Andy yesterday afternoon, a long meandering walk around Hove Park, passing the petrol station I had spent five years working in. Busy Sunday, all petrol and cars. Glad I wasn't there any more. Cut down to the beach, then met Sarah outside the Wick at 4:30pm.
She was taking some flowers to the Windmill Theatre for someone to give to the choreographer at the end of a ballet performance. We walked up with her, back past Hove Park and the petrol station. Memorioes of only a few hours before.
Cut through suburbia. Nevill Road. A long wasteland of houses. Nothing more. A windmill glimpsed between the buildings. A church looking like a Southern American mission.
Walked up the entrance to the theatre / school. Walking round that curve, under those leafless poplars...
A sudden image, like a memory but not, like deja-vu, but not... I was reminded of something. Going to school? Maybe. A Grey day. Early morning. Rain. Black clouds and the street lamps in the distance still burning. Dead of winter. People wrapped up against the rain. Umbrellas and scarves. Rain hammering down like footsteps.
That was it really. It wasn't deja-vu, as it wasn't accompaned by that feeling of coming revelation that deja-vu always brings. It was more akin to being reminded of a memory one has never had.
A school in the rain.
A curving path.
A line of poplar trees.
It is that strange time of year anyway. The evenings grow longer, now past the equinox, and British Summer Time next weekend. The air has begun to taste of spring, all electric, optimistic yet vulnerable.
The dark days of winter are starting to seem a long time ago now.
Thursday 18 March 2010
A Sofa, Abandoned in the Fog
When I left work yesterday, I was pleased to discover that a fog had descended. Could this be a sea-fog? Perhaps. I hope it rolled in from across the night-sea.
The fog was relatively thick, all Victorian-London and December-ghosts. I watched it scudding through the halos of streetlight. Listened to the sounds distorted through the white darkness, all clattering footsteps and distant voices. The sounds seemed somehow to define silence more than anything else. Like on a sunny, windy day, you can always hear the sounds of playgrounds in the distance.
As I walked down my street in the ever thickening fog, I was excited to see a two seater sofa that someone had abandoned on the pavement. I had been quite obsessed in getting a sofa for my room over the past few weeks. How would I get it up to my room? I rang Andy, who, after dinner, said he would head over.
I lay on my bed in an agony of waiting. What happened if someone stole my sofa? The Gloomy Bedsit might be transformed by the sofa into a Cosy Bedsit. Where was Andy? What were those noises in the distance?
I thought at first that it was some kind of football chant. Then I thought it was some kind of drunken shenanigans. A bit early, both in the week, and the night, for such shouting I thought.
I lay on my bed with the window open.
The noises grew nearer. I could hear harmonies. Singing. People were singing.
What on earth was going on out there?
I turned off my light and opened the curtain. The fog had gotten considerably thicker, and there, across the road, was a procession of people. It was some kind of hymn they were singing, and the procession was led by a man with a cross. Many of the people following, and singing, seemed to be dressed in priestly raiments.
I was somewhat pleased by this surreal sight, watched them turn into Western Road and fade out of sight and hearing.
And the sofa is in my room now, and I was right, the bedsit has now been transformed, merely by the addition of one sofa, found abandoned in the fog of a quiet Wednesday night.
The fog was relatively thick, all Victorian-London and December-ghosts. I watched it scudding through the halos of streetlight. Listened to the sounds distorted through the white darkness, all clattering footsteps and distant voices. The sounds seemed somehow to define silence more than anything else. Like on a sunny, windy day, you can always hear the sounds of playgrounds in the distance.
As I walked down my street in the ever thickening fog, I was excited to see a two seater sofa that someone had abandoned on the pavement. I had been quite obsessed in getting a sofa for my room over the past few weeks. How would I get it up to my room? I rang Andy, who, after dinner, said he would head over.
I lay on my bed in an agony of waiting. What happened if someone stole my sofa? The Gloomy Bedsit might be transformed by the sofa into a Cosy Bedsit. Where was Andy? What were those noises in the distance?
I thought at first that it was some kind of football chant. Then I thought it was some kind of drunken shenanigans. A bit early, both in the week, and the night, for such shouting I thought.
I lay on my bed with the window open.
The noises grew nearer. I could hear harmonies. Singing. People were singing.
What on earth was going on out there?
I turned off my light and opened the curtain. The fog had gotten considerably thicker, and there, across the road, was a procession of people. It was some kind of hymn they were singing, and the procession was led by a man with a cross. Many of the people following, and singing, seemed to be dressed in priestly raiments.
I was somewhat pleased by this surreal sight, watched them turn into Western Road and fade out of sight and hearing.
And the sofa is in my room now, and I was right, the bedsit has now been transformed, merely by the addition of one sofa, found abandoned in the fog of a quiet Wednesday night.
Mundane Work Epistle
12:30am.
Caught up in amusing but mundane office stress. Verbal assessments. Need to write out mark sheets again. Core fails zero. Face to face calibration this afternoon. Call levelling with the clients. Monthly audit. Work is absurd.
I want to walk along the beach in the spring sun.
Still 12:30am.
Seven hours left.
Caught up in amusing but mundane office stress. Verbal assessments. Need to write out mark sheets again. Core fails zero. Face to face calibration this afternoon. Call levelling with the clients. Monthly audit. Work is absurd.
I want to walk along the beach in the spring sun.
Still 12:30am.
Seven hours left.
Monday 15 March 2010
The Fishermans Secret
By the time I met Sarah for coffee yesterday it was only 11:30am. A bright Spring day, though as we had coffee it had begun to gloom over. Only temporary though. The sun shone all afternoon.
After I had left Sarah, I caught the bus to Rottingdean. I knew everyone else would be hungover, thanks to the Hove Beer Festival the night before. I had forgotten to get a ticket, and by the time I tried to, they had sold out. Nothing worse than spending Sunday inside so I caught the bus to Rottingdean, and walked back along the coast. I had done this walk on numerous occasions before, the last time with Jen, back in January, but never on my own.
The Undercliff Walk was littered with families, students on bikes, old men. Dogs ran wildly ind elight.
The Marina, coming up quick.
So busy.
The pleasure boats there don't interest me, a crop of affluence and utterly lacking in interest. Plastic vessels, beguiling as furniture bought from brand name warehouses.
Below a sign which said 'this is a working quay, do not enter' were a line of boats that were much more appealing. Fishing boats. Working vessels. Surprisingly small, and all hunched in. Dark wood and a cramped cabin. Ramshackle masts from which fluttered black plastic-bag flags. Heralds for some obscure sea empire. From the deck of one of these fishing boats there rose a street lamp. I think I would die of happiness if I ever saw it lit. Nets and buckets lay about the walkway. Smell of fish and the sea and the deeps.
A fisherman.
I would love to be a fisherman, I thought, suddenly. Set off while it's still dark. Un-still waves, and a mind still longing for sleep. Dream-tides and lonely current. Can't see the land fromm the cabin. Alone here with the dawn. It would be so beautiful.
The moment passed.
There was only a single man on this line of boats. Down at the end. Sawing away at something I couldn't see.
Lost in his work.
And above him, in the marinas and the restaurants and the Asda car park, and the roads leading up into Whitehawk, and back into Brighton, no-one heard him but me.
Dark later and later. Called around Andy's house for a cup of tea. Was about 5:00pm. He was, as thought, just getting up. Called round Jo's house afterwards.
Walked back through the night. A spring night. You can always tell a Spring night, the darkness goes all blue and electric. Sea-wind fresh and hopeful, deepening, things pooling in the shadows.
I thought of boats and summers, and by the time I had arrived back at the House of Bedsits, there were only slivers of the day left, out over the sea, near that unreachable horizon only the fishermen know.
After I had left Sarah, I caught the bus to Rottingdean. I knew everyone else would be hungover, thanks to the Hove Beer Festival the night before. I had forgotten to get a ticket, and by the time I tried to, they had sold out. Nothing worse than spending Sunday inside so I caught the bus to Rottingdean, and walked back along the coast. I had done this walk on numerous occasions before, the last time with Jen, back in January, but never on my own.
The Undercliff Walk was littered with families, students on bikes, old men. Dogs ran wildly ind elight.
The Marina, coming up quick.
So busy.
The pleasure boats there don't interest me, a crop of affluence and utterly lacking in interest. Plastic vessels, beguiling as furniture bought from brand name warehouses.
Below a sign which said 'this is a working quay, do not enter' were a line of boats that were much more appealing. Fishing boats. Working vessels. Surprisingly small, and all hunched in. Dark wood and a cramped cabin. Ramshackle masts from which fluttered black plastic-bag flags. Heralds for some obscure sea empire. From the deck of one of these fishing boats there rose a street lamp. I think I would die of happiness if I ever saw it lit. Nets and buckets lay about the walkway. Smell of fish and the sea and the deeps.
A fisherman.
I would love to be a fisherman, I thought, suddenly. Set off while it's still dark. Un-still waves, and a mind still longing for sleep. Dream-tides and lonely current. Can't see the land fromm the cabin. Alone here with the dawn. It would be so beautiful.
The moment passed.
There was only a single man on this line of boats. Down at the end. Sawing away at something I couldn't see.
Lost in his work.
And above him, in the marinas and the restaurants and the Asda car park, and the roads leading up into Whitehawk, and back into Brighton, no-one heard him but me.
Dark later and later. Called around Andy's house for a cup of tea. Was about 5:00pm. He was, as thought, just getting up. Called round Jo's house afterwards.
Walked back through the night. A spring night. You can always tell a Spring night, the darkness goes all blue and electric. Sea-wind fresh and hopeful, deepening, things pooling in the shadows.
I thought of boats and summers, and by the time I had arrived back at the House of Bedsits, there were only slivers of the day left, out over the sea, near that unreachable horizon only the fishermen know.
Sunday 14 March 2010
Saturday Night Dream
I was at the beach with Tom, from work. The sky was dark, and had that dream-portentiousness about it. The beach as made of sand and not pebbles, as it is in waking life. By the old pier a huge boat had been grounded. Black hulk, rotting timbers. beached leviathan. Tom and myself were searching along the sand dunes for something. I pulled out an old fashioned rifle from the sands. It was some kind of exhibition rifle - it was still attached to some kind of frame that was hung on the wall. I called to Tom to show him what I had. I was pleased. Tom looked reproachingly at me. Told me to put the rifle away because you didn't know who was watching. Crestfallen, I folded the rifle up, and continued searching for what I didn't know.
Saturday 13 March 2010
Drifting in Docks
Strange times.
Feels like the year hasn't yet got a narrative. No story yet. Still feels like I'm drifting in the Sargasso Seas of January. Surely can't be my birthday next Sunday. 38years old? How did that happen? I'm sure New Year was only last week. Sure Christmas is next week. Still November. Still thinking about starting something called 'Tales from Bridge 39'...
Strange times.
Strange time (running backwards)
Perhaps.
Fragmented.
Joe left Brighton this week, back to the West Country, and to wherever his future takes him. I saw him emerging from the twilight realms of St Anne's Park last Sunday as I paced the streets on my epic Sunday walk. He was stressed out; leaving Brighton, problems with his landlord.
I still have loads of his old vinyl he hasn't listened to for years.
Halfway through the seventh drawing in the Book of Deleriums. For once, I am quite pleased with it. By copying the technique of an artist called Charles Burns for the sky, I have discovered a rather pleasing effect, giving more a sense of an old woodcut. I really must find my camera cable so I can upload photographs. Talking about drawing is something which suddenly strikes me as rather ridiculous.
The skies have changed. Could see it all this week; thick banks of bright white cloud, apart from one day, when the clouds took a more sobre turn and seemed to threaten rain. Spring clouds. Worcester echoes. There always seemed to be clouds like this in Worcester, days that remind you of cathedrals and rain.
Fragments and drifting. Fishing in still waters from an abandoned dock. Dead ships by creaking harbour, and even the gulls look desolate.
35 minutes to midnight.
So quiet outside the House of Bedsits tonight.
So quiet inside too.
Feels like the year hasn't yet got a narrative. No story yet. Still feels like I'm drifting in the Sargasso Seas of January. Surely can't be my birthday next Sunday. 38years old? How did that happen? I'm sure New Year was only last week. Sure Christmas is next week. Still November. Still thinking about starting something called 'Tales from Bridge 39'...
Strange times.
Strange time (running backwards)
Perhaps.
Fragmented.
Joe left Brighton this week, back to the West Country, and to wherever his future takes him. I saw him emerging from the twilight realms of St Anne's Park last Sunday as I paced the streets on my epic Sunday walk. He was stressed out; leaving Brighton, problems with his landlord.
I still have loads of his old vinyl he hasn't listened to for years.
Halfway through the seventh drawing in the Book of Deleriums. For once, I am quite pleased with it. By copying the technique of an artist called Charles Burns for the sky, I have discovered a rather pleasing effect, giving more a sense of an old woodcut. I really must find my camera cable so I can upload photographs. Talking about drawing is something which suddenly strikes me as rather ridiculous.
The skies have changed. Could see it all this week; thick banks of bright white cloud, apart from one day, when the clouds took a more sobre turn and seemed to threaten rain. Spring clouds. Worcester echoes. There always seemed to be clouds like this in Worcester, days that remind you of cathedrals and rain.
Fragments and drifting. Fishing in still waters from an abandoned dock. Dead ships by creaking harbour, and even the gulls look desolate.
35 minutes to midnight.
So quiet outside the House of Bedsits tonight.
So quiet inside too.
Tuesday 9 March 2010
Midday at the Call Centre
It's now just turned midday. I am sat at work, in the office, not listening to the calls I am meant to mark. Well, I listen to them, but I don't hear them. Not when there are crosswords to do, newspapers to read, internet access, and the window to stare out of...
Still, the view outside the office window is somewhat uninspiring. A brick wall, and below the brick wall, the ramp leading down to the dismal confines of the 'smoking area'. Above the brick wall a number of modern looking residential buildings. Between these four storey apartment buildings, I can see a shop called 'Samurai'. I think it is some kind of martial arts shop.
I have just had a text from Ingrid, a friend from Austria. I am meeting her and Sarah for a coffee at the rather precise time of 3:15pm at Costa Coffee, around the corner from me.
Michelle is talking to Tom about call centre gossip, which I am actually quite interested in, but am typing here, and pretending to listen to calls I can't hear. The recent sunny, but deceptively cold weather, has been replaced by grey skies. the grey skies are unmistakeably spring-like though; wet, remniscent of other springs; my first spring in Brighton, ten years ago, walking from Hove back to Brighton, listening to Count Raven on my walkman. Worcester, those bright, damp, gloomy springs of Worcester. Days spent barely free from sleep. Unwritten essays. College reading lists lost.
The coffee machine?
I consider the veracity of the of the coffee machine. I am a bit lost without smoking. What to do to break up the working day? trips to the coffee machine are not quite the same as a cigarette break. Coffee machine.
yes, I think so.
Still, the view outside the office window is somewhat uninspiring. A brick wall, and below the brick wall, the ramp leading down to the dismal confines of the 'smoking area'. Above the brick wall a number of modern looking residential buildings. Between these four storey apartment buildings, I can see a shop called 'Samurai'. I think it is some kind of martial arts shop.
I have just had a text from Ingrid, a friend from Austria. I am meeting her and Sarah for a coffee at the rather precise time of 3:15pm at Costa Coffee, around the corner from me.
Michelle is talking to Tom about call centre gossip, which I am actually quite interested in, but am typing here, and pretending to listen to calls I can't hear. The recent sunny, but deceptively cold weather, has been replaced by grey skies. the grey skies are unmistakeably spring-like though; wet, remniscent of other springs; my first spring in Brighton, ten years ago, walking from Hove back to Brighton, listening to Count Raven on my walkman. Worcester, those bright, damp, gloomy springs of Worcester. Days spent barely free from sleep. Unwritten essays. College reading lists lost.
The coffee machine?
I consider the veracity of the of the coffee machine. I am a bit lost without smoking. What to do to break up the working day? trips to the coffee machine are not quite the same as a cigarette break. Coffee machine.
yes, I think so.
4:00am
It's 4:00am exactly.
Even the ox-hour has passed.
I can't sleep, obviously, though have been asleep. I looked at the time first at
2:46am, and fully expected to get back to sleep again. To no avail. After an hour of fruitless attempts to find a comfortable spot to lie on, I admitted defeat and switched on the light.
I don't remember dreaming when I was asleep. What I do remember was the window rattling in the window frame, which was strange as I didn't hear any wind. I eventually had to jam a knife in between the window and frame which seemed to stop the rattling nicely.
4:00am. Well, 4:05am.
This doesn't feel like the night. It isn't the small hours. It's not quite the morning either. It feels like descending a hill, when the steep slope begins to shallow out a little.
Looking down on a country town, no longer distant.
A book has somehow crept onto my bed; 'Essential Pre-Raphaelites'. Did I look through it waiting for the computer to boot up? I am quite pleased with the book. It only cost me £3:49 from the charity shop on Blatchington Road. I wish they hadn't had to print Millais' Ophelia over two pages, cutting her face in half. Nasty paper cut.
The fridge has come on. Why are fridges so loud at night? It seems to be emitting a veritable chorus of noises. I can detect at least three tones; a mid-pitch buzz, a deeper monk-like humming, and a higher, ethereal sound that reminds me both of something futuristic and arctic wastes.
I feel in a strangely good mood, as if I am looking forward to somthing tomorrow.
I wonder if anyone else I know is awake? Sarah might be. She often gets up for work early. Still, maybe this is too early even for her.
If this was summer, it would be getting light now.
I really must try to get to sleep.
Even the ox-hour has passed.
I can't sleep, obviously, though have been asleep. I looked at the time first at
2:46am, and fully expected to get back to sleep again. To no avail. After an hour of fruitless attempts to find a comfortable spot to lie on, I admitted defeat and switched on the light.
I don't remember dreaming when I was asleep. What I do remember was the window rattling in the window frame, which was strange as I didn't hear any wind. I eventually had to jam a knife in between the window and frame which seemed to stop the rattling nicely.
4:00am. Well, 4:05am.
This doesn't feel like the night. It isn't the small hours. It's not quite the morning either. It feels like descending a hill, when the steep slope begins to shallow out a little.
Looking down on a country town, no longer distant.
A book has somehow crept onto my bed; 'Essential Pre-Raphaelites'. Did I look through it waiting for the computer to boot up? I am quite pleased with the book. It only cost me £3:49 from the charity shop on Blatchington Road. I wish they hadn't had to print Millais' Ophelia over two pages, cutting her face in half. Nasty paper cut.
The fridge has come on. Why are fridges so loud at night? It seems to be emitting a veritable chorus of noises. I can detect at least three tones; a mid-pitch buzz, a deeper monk-like humming, and a higher, ethereal sound that reminds me both of something futuristic and arctic wastes.
I feel in a strangely good mood, as if I am looking forward to somthing tomorrow.
I wonder if anyone else I know is awake? Sarah might be. She often gets up for work early. Still, maybe this is too early even for her.
If this was summer, it would be getting light now.
I really must try to get to sleep.
Monday 8 March 2010
Marching on Fragments
The sky is pale, or blue, and the sun is bright, and looking at all this from behind windows, it all seems warm. That wind though. That wind does not welcome, cuts through like needles, some knife shifted back from winter. Skin-scratch, ice-tattoo, March-wound.
Wound up like the clocks waiting for British Summer Time. How long now till the clocks go forward? Or Back?
I can't remember which.
Time seems so messed up this time of year.
Wound up like the clocks waiting for British Summer Time. How long now till the clocks go forward? Or Back?
I can't remember which.
Time seems so messed up this time of year.
Tuesday 2 March 2010
Dreaming of Sleep in Daydreams
Still in the call centre. Ten minutes till I leave the claustrophobic confines of the office for the carnival madness of the call floor, where I'll spend three hours conducting a survey on behalf of an insurance company.
Feel oddly restless today, a listless energy, though mixed with a kind physical lethargy. 'A hunger for something that didn't exist' to quote, or paraphrase Albert Camus.
Perhaps it is the spring, and the obsessions and fascinations that I have immersed myself in are to be cast aside, for the new obsessions and fascinations of springtime.
I think of my room, the single bedsit, and do not look forward to returning home.
Pam has just come into the office, to start her four hour shift. She has a cold. Tom is typing away sat next to me. Pam is talking about sellotape, and Mr Harrold is silent. Pam has found her sellotape.
An odd need to travel somewhere, away from the endless repeats of Brighton. A hill above a lake, a shore of a nameless sea, a glade of an unmapped wood. Sleep in barns and by hedge-side, listen to wood pigeons and a distant breeze.
Dreaming of sleep in daydreams now.
It looks like an old sun out there. A 1970s sun. Abbey Crescent. Maybe even older. Malta. Dusty meditterenean sun. Does meditterenean have a capital? Three weeks till my 38th birthday.
Dream of Wilbury Crescent. When Joe leaves Brighton this Friday for, as yet, unknown pastures, Wilbury Crescent will be cast even further back into the past. A year yesterday that we handed back the keys. A shepherds warning sunset.
Four minutes till I leave the office.
Four hours till I am home.
Four days until Saturday.
Not that I am particularly waiting for the weekend.
Feel oddly restless today, a listless energy, though mixed with a kind physical lethargy. 'A hunger for something that didn't exist' to quote, or paraphrase Albert Camus.
Perhaps it is the spring, and the obsessions and fascinations that I have immersed myself in are to be cast aside, for the new obsessions and fascinations of springtime.
I think of my room, the single bedsit, and do not look forward to returning home.
Pam has just come into the office, to start her four hour shift. She has a cold. Tom is typing away sat next to me. Pam is talking about sellotape, and Mr Harrold is silent. Pam has found her sellotape.
An odd need to travel somewhere, away from the endless repeats of Brighton. A hill above a lake, a shore of a nameless sea, a glade of an unmapped wood. Sleep in barns and by hedge-side, listen to wood pigeons and a distant breeze.
Dreaming of sleep in daydreams now.
It looks like an old sun out there. A 1970s sun. Abbey Crescent. Maybe even older. Malta. Dusty meditterenean sun. Does meditterenean have a capital? Three weeks till my 38th birthday.
Dream of Wilbury Crescent. When Joe leaves Brighton this Friday for, as yet, unknown pastures, Wilbury Crescent will be cast even further back into the past. A year yesterday that we handed back the keys. A shepherds warning sunset.
Four minutes till I leave the office.
Four hours till I am home.
Four days until Saturday.
Not that I am particularly waiting for the weekend.
Dreams of Murder
I hear the sounds of building site machinery in the distance. Airport noise. Reminds me of mornings and holidays never taken. Journeys and farewells. Blue sky and brightness again. Springtime.
I tried reading before sleep last night, the excellent 'Street of Crocodiles' by Schulz. This worked, and after I had switched off the lamp, I soon fell into a blissful sleep. Not quite oblivion though, not with my dream recall, pleasingly. A visceral nightmare last night, a horror film dreamt of in fever. Probably because I had, finally, started writing 'Meditations on the Noxis-Nibris' last night.
I was in New Zealand sharing a house with a number of other people. Alistair was possibly one of them. The house was dark and shadowy, and was once a mental asylum. There were still patients living there, despite the fact that it was no longer a hospital. Two of the people living there were the old British Comedian duo Cannon and Ball. One night, there had been some kind of darkening of the atmosphere of the labyrinthine edifice. An outbreak of murder. One hulking patient had killed another, left the body down a long set of stairs. Cannon had killed Ball, by eating out his stomach. Cannon had vanished into a room and refused to come out. I was keen to alert the police, but days seemed to pass by without anything being done. The bodies kept being moved about (?). Things were getting out of hand. At the bottom of the stairway, one of the bodies had started to decay. I found a severed hand in the hallway. I was ascending another set of stairs. The house seemed to be infected with a blight of stairways. These stairs were modern, almost science-fiction-like, bright and gleaming. There was also some moving parts to the flight of steps I was ascending, an indescribable collusion of rollercoaster rides and merry-go-rounds. I had to keep moving on these steps, but they swung me further and further out. Afraid I would fall. Afraid, even more, that I would become stuck on these steps forever, and would somehow be implicated in the murders. With relief I managed to extricate myself from the stairs. Cannon emerged from his room. The effect of murdering his comedic partner had caused a kind of physical degeneration. His posture had grown almost ape-like, his physical presence brooding and intimidating. The worst were his eyes, wild and staring, an ancient malevolence. I locked him back in the room again. I finally manage to phone the New Zealand emergency services. A complicated series of options. The man I am speaking to is angry with me for phoning. I try to explain to him that there has been a series of murders and the murderers are still in the building. he goes away to get me the correct phone number, which I write down with a mixture of relief. I get off the phone, and triumphantly tell Alistair I have the correct number.
Which is all I can remember.
The brutality of the dream is remniscent of a dream that Andy had a few weeks ago, where he had killed a man, and had to dispose of the body. The man's head had been split open. Andy managed to stuff the body in a cool-box, the kind used for picnics. He was hauling the box outside, presumably to bury it somewhere, when a man called to him; 'Mate, your onions are hanging out!'. Andy looked down and saw that the 'onions' were in fact the man's brains, hanging down from the icebox. The man asked if he could try the 'onions', saying that they were rare. Andy was horrified of this, and said that he needed all his 'onions'.
And writing about that dream reminds me that Hazel, Andy's younger sister, had a dream the other afternoon about being a murderer.
Strange.
A season of dreams about murder.
Twenty five minutes to midday. Not a cloud in the sky. I feel an urge to swim in the sea, or to lie in the park drinking coffee, but, alas, office life continues.
At least there are the delights of the coffee machine...
I tried reading before sleep last night, the excellent 'Street of Crocodiles' by Schulz. This worked, and after I had switched off the lamp, I soon fell into a blissful sleep. Not quite oblivion though, not with my dream recall, pleasingly. A visceral nightmare last night, a horror film dreamt of in fever. Probably because I had, finally, started writing 'Meditations on the Noxis-Nibris' last night.
I was in New Zealand sharing a house with a number of other people. Alistair was possibly one of them. The house was dark and shadowy, and was once a mental asylum. There were still patients living there, despite the fact that it was no longer a hospital. Two of the people living there were the old British Comedian duo Cannon and Ball. One night, there had been some kind of darkening of the atmosphere of the labyrinthine edifice. An outbreak of murder. One hulking patient had killed another, left the body down a long set of stairs. Cannon had killed Ball, by eating out his stomach. Cannon had vanished into a room and refused to come out. I was keen to alert the police, but days seemed to pass by without anything being done. The bodies kept being moved about (?). Things were getting out of hand. At the bottom of the stairway, one of the bodies had started to decay. I found a severed hand in the hallway. I was ascending another set of stairs. The house seemed to be infected with a blight of stairways. These stairs were modern, almost science-fiction-like, bright and gleaming. There was also some moving parts to the flight of steps I was ascending, an indescribable collusion of rollercoaster rides and merry-go-rounds. I had to keep moving on these steps, but they swung me further and further out. Afraid I would fall. Afraid, even more, that I would become stuck on these steps forever, and would somehow be implicated in the murders. With relief I managed to extricate myself from the stairs. Cannon emerged from his room. The effect of murdering his comedic partner had caused a kind of physical degeneration. His posture had grown almost ape-like, his physical presence brooding and intimidating. The worst were his eyes, wild and staring, an ancient malevolence. I locked him back in the room again. I finally manage to phone the New Zealand emergency services. A complicated series of options. The man I am speaking to is angry with me for phoning. I try to explain to him that there has been a series of murders and the murderers are still in the building. he goes away to get me the correct phone number, which I write down with a mixture of relief. I get off the phone, and triumphantly tell Alistair I have the correct number.
Which is all I can remember.
The brutality of the dream is remniscent of a dream that Andy had a few weeks ago, where he had killed a man, and had to dispose of the body. The man's head had been split open. Andy managed to stuff the body in a cool-box, the kind used for picnics. He was hauling the box outside, presumably to bury it somewhere, when a man called to him; 'Mate, your onions are hanging out!'. Andy looked down and saw that the 'onions' were in fact the man's brains, hanging down from the icebox. The man asked if he could try the 'onions', saying that they were rare. Andy was horrified of this, and said that he needed all his 'onions'.
And writing about that dream reminds me that Hazel, Andy's younger sister, had a dream the other afternoon about being a murderer.
Strange.
A season of dreams about murder.
Twenty five minutes to midday. Not a cloud in the sky. I feel an urge to swim in the sea, or to lie in the park drinking coffee, but, alas, office life continues.
At least there are the delights of the coffee machine...
Monday 1 March 2010
Seven for a Secret Never to be Told
It seems that something is stealing time. I don't mean in the way that it is suddenly March -after all, it has been a long and unwelcome winter- but in the way that I don't seem to have any time. This would be understandable if I was in any way more busy, but nothing has changed at all, and yet, I never seem to find time for anything these days but these scrawled notes of a life; under exposed photographs and degenerating echoes.
Now that I have started writing I discover that my dinner is ready.
I'm sure pasta used to take longer to boil.
(later)
Dinner all finished. Now, where was I?
Having said the above about time, I managed to leave the house early enough for a coffee down at the beach before work this morning. I sat on the stones under a blue sky. Warm sun and watching the seagulls, thinking about last night's dream of finding myself back in Ickenham again, at my old school, being mistaken for a teacher. A crumbling interior, and the roads around the school lined with pine trees, fading in that seemingly obligatory sunset.
The days grow longer, stretching luxuriously into the evening. The shores of spring are, at last glimpsed in the distance. Leaving the burdens of the winter-sea behind us, the price exacted, the toll, we hope, paid.
The winter has been too long, metaphorically, to hope yet, and despite the sun and the calm waters, I cannot help but feel uneasy at the passing of another season. As superstitious as a sailor, I count the magpies of these hours. Salute at the single bird, smile at a pair. Boys, girls, silver, gold.
Perhaps one more than gold.
Lets count...
A lost mirror.
A shadowed attic.
A stolen kiss.
A borrowed time.
A flickering lamp.
A broken map.
A seventh magpie, lost in silence, it's song unheard, and secret never told...
Now that I have started writing I discover that my dinner is ready.
I'm sure pasta used to take longer to boil.
(later)
Dinner all finished. Now, where was I?
Having said the above about time, I managed to leave the house early enough for a coffee down at the beach before work this morning. I sat on the stones under a blue sky. Warm sun and watching the seagulls, thinking about last night's dream of finding myself back in Ickenham again, at my old school, being mistaken for a teacher. A crumbling interior, and the roads around the school lined with pine trees, fading in that seemingly obligatory sunset.
The days grow longer, stretching luxuriously into the evening. The shores of spring are, at last glimpsed in the distance. Leaving the burdens of the winter-sea behind us, the price exacted, the toll, we hope, paid.
The winter has been too long, metaphorically, to hope yet, and despite the sun and the calm waters, I cannot help but feel uneasy at the passing of another season. As superstitious as a sailor, I count the magpies of these hours. Salute at the single bird, smile at a pair. Boys, girls, silver, gold.
Perhaps one more than gold.
Lets count...
A lost mirror.
A shadowed attic.
A stolen kiss.
A borrowed time.
A flickering lamp.
A broken map.
A seventh magpie, lost in silence, it's song unheard, and secret never told...
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