Sunday morning, 11:18. Am sat in some internet cafe near Sackville Road. Empty cellar room. Just the sound of the keyboard, and a clock ticking on the wall in front of me. Sunny outside, though that winter sun that seems somehow desolate. At least it makes a change from the rain, not that I mind rain too much.
Finally got the keys to my bedsit; a small room on the second floor looking out onto the street. Not moved in yet though, have to find some means of getting my stuff over there, and people to help me move it, but everyone has gone away for the weekend, so I've stayed at Andy's flat on my own. Joe, when he first saw the bedsit said 'this is the room of a writer who ends up killing themselves'. We turned off the light, just to see what it was like. The window frame made a rather portentious crucifix shape, outlined against the streetlight. Deep, dark shadows. The darkness almost palpable.
A decade full of bad flats and cursed houses. I'm getting sick of it.
Went out with Joe and people from work on Friday. Had three absinthes which is far too many, amongst other things. Walking back through driving rain, stoned and soaking (we had gone round T's house after the pub), half-lost in unfamiliar streets. Fascinated by the gutter-rivers, mini floods cascading down drains, over dams of drowned leaves, watching a plastic fork turn up, get stuck, be devoured.
Strange day yesterday. Didn't see anyone, bought lamps and lightbulbs, moved some stuff over to the bedsit. Hollow, empty room. Be glad when all my stuff is there, next weekend apparently. Sick of this transient phase. Homeless with a home. As twilight fell, a sense of isolation fell over me. A. is away up north, so I am staying in his flat -the Capsule- on my own. Couldn't rest. Didn't feel like listening to music. Nothing on television. Eventually fell asleep at about 10pm. Don't remember dreaming. Maybe I do. yes I do. Canalboats and sunny days. A feeling of untraceable anxiety.
Half an hour until midday.
I'll be glad when Sunday is over.
Sunday, 6 December 2009
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
Three Dream Fragments.
I.
C. had joined a Christian Cult. AM, her boyfriend was not too pleased at this. JW and I were investigating this cult, as part of unspecified studies. As part of our studies we have to go through a 'rebirthing ritual'. I am suddenly concerned at this, and am worried that going through this ritual may somehow mean that I will become brainwashed. Standing in a queue with JW, voicing our sudden concerns.
II.
A flooded industrial room, open to the outside. Wading through knee deep water. Pipes. Long oblong pieces of machinery. With A. Turn one of the pieces of machinery over. Am pleased to see that it is some kind of sideboard for a bedroom. Realise I am in a bedroom. The water seems to drain away. It would make quite a nice bedrrom I think. I am suddenly sad because I have to leave it.
III.
Looking back over a stile at a field. On the other side of a field is another stile. There is a sequence of fields connected by stiles. I have just come across the fields and over the stiles. Summer night. With someone else, possibly JW. The sequence of fields looks very alluring, and I am please with the sudden revelation that I can come back when I am alone.
C. had joined a Christian Cult. AM, her boyfriend was not too pleased at this. JW and I were investigating this cult, as part of unspecified studies. As part of our studies we have to go through a 'rebirthing ritual'. I am suddenly concerned at this, and am worried that going through this ritual may somehow mean that I will become brainwashed. Standing in a queue with JW, voicing our sudden concerns.
II.
A flooded industrial room, open to the outside. Wading through knee deep water. Pipes. Long oblong pieces of machinery. With A. Turn one of the pieces of machinery over. Am pleased to see that it is some kind of sideboard for a bedroom. Realise I am in a bedroom. The water seems to drain away. It would make quite a nice bedrrom I think. I am suddenly sad because I have to leave it.
III.
Looking back over a stile at a field. On the other side of a field is another stile. There is a sequence of fields connected by stiles. I have just come across the fields and over the stiles. Summer night. With someone else, possibly JW. The sequence of fields looks very alluring, and I am please with the sudden revelation that I can come back when I am alone.
Lines Written in a Notebook, Bystander Cafe 7:30pm approx
Long day at work. Nine hours. Transient time. Cup of tea in the Bystander Cafe opposite Brighton station. Waiting for Brighton Poetry Society night at 8:00pm. A tangle of buses, taxis, people coming out of Brighton Station. Shifting lights -blue, purple, orange - lighting the path that leads under Trafalgar Street underpass. Everyone wrapped up, pointing towards December. Year-end. Decade-end. A fractious energy haunting us all, nervy, hysterical. I think it's the end of the decade, reviewing the first ten years of the century, new millennium chapter. Time passing. Needing to expel accumulated poison. Necessary but unpleasant. Damp but cold through the day. Now a dry Christmas cold. 'Kansas before the storm hits' (who wrote that?) Feels like Kansas. Hope this is the storm already here. Melodrama and over exaggeration - my two main talents... Drink tea. Think of smoking a cigarette on the way down to the Sanctuary Cafe. Waiting for sleep. Hoping the bedsit turns out okay. Remember I used to live round here. Studio flat in Buckingham Street. Three and a half years - 2003 - 2007. Black sky, clear air, autumn done with. Only winter remaining. Drink tea and watch the televised gameshow reflected in the Bystander Cafe windows.
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