27 April 2012


She is self conscious, she walks without moving her arms, sucking her stomach in when she laughs. Her legs do not seem to move from her hips. When she wakes up she looks at the pillow to see how much eyeliner has been lost, she reapplies and puts her bra on under her pyjamas then comes down to breakfast. I am dishevelled and unsupported, my home hair cut feels suddenly obscene, an affront to something I do not understand. She winces when I paint over chipped nail polish.

13 April 2012


I find an apple in my bag. Everything is simple. Love is ordinary and good and engraved onto benches and plaques along the pier. The sky’s so blue I could puke. Time is not a source of worry. Nor is age or tooth decay. Nothing matters. Only water and stones, birds and minimal shelter, trees and sea. The air smells of lunch. K is quiet and calm, but dangerous like a razored Halloween apple. Clouds brew and blacken, priming for rain. The sea will rage. I will read nothing into it. I’ll eat my apple and go inside where I will do something until I want to do something else. 

9 April 2012


from Denis Johnson's Jesus' Son (1992)

Down the hall came the wife. She was glorious, burning. She didn't know yet that her husband was dead. We knew. That's what gave her such power over us. The doctor took her into a room with a desk at the end of the hall, and from under the closed door a slab of brilliance radiated as if, by some stupendous process, diamonds were being incinerated in there. What a pair of lungs! She shrieked as I imagined an eagle would shriek. It felt wonderful to be alive to hear it! I've gone looking for that feeling everywhere.

from Virginia Woolf's Between the Acts (1941)

There, couched in the grass, curled in an olive green ring, was a snake. Dead? No, choked with a toad on its mouth. The snake was unable to swallow; the toad was unable to die. A spasm made the ribs contract; blood oozed. It was birth the wrong way round - a monstrous inversion. So, raising his foot, he stamped on them. The mass crushed and slithered. The white canvas on his tennis shoes was bloodstained and sticky. But it was action. Action relieved him. He strode to the Barn, with blood on his shoes.

5 April 2012


There is time. Like any other. Before the others have woken. Before the postman has come. Before the sun proclaims itself. It is as though I have lifted up a rock and found a wealth of crawling insects, slithering with life, teeming. Existing regardless, existing in the dark, existing under a rock. Where I thought there was no space are whole systems of living. Even in the darkest places.