a function of hindsight

The line between a generous love and a selfish one is sometimes so fine that neither lover nor lover will be able to spot it.

In the present.

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aliens

If your partner's from another country there will be cultural differences which may be hard to overcome but can be with time, love and patience.

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If your partner's from another planet there will be cultural differences which may be impossible to overcome, no matter how much time, love or patience are available.

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3 poems from the desert

dune

Mountain, sea, body,
Flesh, water, stone.
Light play shadow,
Trail scurries side
Ways also back
Wards and forwards.
Land a sundial,
Intemperate,
Fearsome. Gentle.


ouarzazate

It's too hot to sight-see. It's too hot
To eat. Our fellow expeditionaries
Talk environment. Hong Kong, everything
Under the sun. We drink water, make
Notes, retreat. The locals smoke, eat
Ice cream, speak slowly, watch -


ait

The chocolate walls look like they're made
Of lego. The kid who adopts us has
Lived here all his life. I ask if he
Wants to move and he says yes, he'll
Go across the river, to the other side
With the electricity. Ten families
Live in the old kasbah. A few years ago
They built a pit to film Gladiator.
I ask the kid if he's Russel Crowe's
Mate. The kid says he was too young.
He doesn't hassle us for dirhams
But we give him some anyway.



sahara june07

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wealth of a nation

Avarice is like a lode star which shines above our culture.

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It informs the way we eat, think, write, dream, love.

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It does its best to inform the way we make love; but it is not as successful in this as it seeks to be.

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It functions like advertising (its sancho panza). It operates in the breaks between programs. Opens and fills and empties the cracks that spiderweb our walls.

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Avarice has no scruples. It drops bombs, eats babies, fucks nuns and toys with hearts. All for the sake of something extra which is not required.

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how the mind works

In a dream, you get the answer you were looking for.
When you wake up you distinctly remember being given it.
The trouble is you can't remember what it was.
In fact, you can't even remember what the question was.

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amo amas amat

It is easy to confuse love for another with love for one-self.

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It is generally the most selfish who are the greatest advocates of 'love'. Those who talk most of their capacity to love another will be those whose capacity for love is least.

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Self-ishness seeks rewards which it claims for love but have little to do with love.

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Love is a long-term project.

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Love is a labour of love.

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the height of the walls

Everyone can have an opinion about someone else's tent.

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The only ones who will ever know what the inside of the tent looks like are they who (have) dwell(ed) within it.

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gemini

Being a writer is like being born with a dead twin at one's side.

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itineranced

He often goes to bed of a night convinced that the life he's now leading is but a chimera; that his real life continues elsewhere, without him.

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the fountain

Now since this was raised.

I remember the fountain. I did not run through it in 1994. I ran through it in 1996.

It had been over a year since the last time I was in Montevideo. A year of living in various parts of South London. Drug dealers, painting and decorating, black market labour, the usual insipid poverty. RSC rejection. Other rejections. Superwoman and the Nigerian runaways. Stashing notes in a shoebox every week to pay for H to come over for two weeks in June – Hector paid in the end so it may have paid for my ticket, I can’t remember. Letters and letters and letters.

So many times Montevideo had slipped into the status of a dreamland. And then finally, 1996 came, and I was allowed to go back.

My flight took forever. At Stanstead, the plane taking us to Amsterdam was delayed. A dull wet Friday night. When the plane finally took off the pilot said there were three of us making the Buenos Aires connection, and he was sorry to say it looked like we wouldn’t make it. There’s nothing you can do, but I didn’t know how I’d be able to tell H I’d be delayed. We only had so much time, and we’d waited so long. Then, as we came to land in Schipol, the pilot announced the BA flight had been held back, just for us.

The Stanstead Three were rushed through the airport on an electric trolley with our baggage. A pretty Argentine, a portly Englishman, and me. The other passengers glared as we were ushered into the plane. They’d been waiting half an hour. Eva Castro (for indeed this was her name) was an architecture student at the Bartlett, going to visit her family in Mar Del Plata. We drank red wine and chatted till late. The plane was half empty. A rare civilised flight. I stretched out and failed to sleep. I can never sleep on planes. In the morning I got talking to the portly man. He was going to work for an Argentine gas company. Some kind of consultant. His ticket cost six times mine. I mentioned the fact my father worked in the oil business. He knew my father. He thought my father was a great guy. He’d had drinks with my father.

We landed at Buenos Aires, early morning. Eva Castro told me to visit her, or look her up in London. I never did. The man who knew my father gave me a lift in his cab to the port. I was in Latin America again. The air smelt different. The light was different.

I bought a ticket at the port. It was eight thirty in the morning. The next buquebus didn’t go until four in the afternoon. There wasn’t much to do in the terminal. I sat, hugged my rucksack. Tried to stay awake. Felt more and more delirious. Wrote notes which I’ve since lost. The hours were like glue. Wonderwall played on the tannoy. It seemed appropriate. I heard Spanish all around me. I hadn’t slept in nearly 35 hours.

I can’t remember boarding the jetfoil. I can’t remember how long it took. Maybe two hours. I remember seeing Uruguay come into view. Tracing the coast for an age. Spotting the Cerro. I remember the boat pulling into the harbour. There were the clocktowers. The post office. The Palacio Salvo. My landmarks. The boat pulled in sideways to the dock. On the dockside a small crowd was gathered. I saw Anibal. I saw Helena. She was wearing a dress in the evening warmth. Was she smiling or laughing. I pressed myself against the glass. I wasn’t’ sure if what I was seeing was real.

The rest was easy. They didn’t check me at customs. I was no hick tourist. Straight out the side door. Arms legs and lips. Anibal grinning like a benevolent brother. A short drive in his old VW. Puttering along.

I dropped my bag at Anibal’s. Then H and I went to Lobizon. For old time’s sake. It was still early. The minute we walked in you could feel it wasn’t like before, but it didn’t matter. We were there. Did we share a beer? I can’t remember. There was no-one else there. English time. We didn’t stay long. Walked back down Dies y Ocho. Holding hands. I was, I would say, euphoric. Warmth and evening and people a strolling and talking and H beside me. Just about perfect. Once in a lifetime.

We got to the square, where I later saw Martin Amis looking blurry and Tabare Vasquez celebrating. The fountain was low and flat, a kind of giant raised hubcap, with jets all over. The water beckoned. I told H I wanted to dive in. I asked what she thought. She told me if I wanted to I should do it. I ran across. As I ran I felt my jeans tear on a water jet, and realised I could have impaled my foot. I scampered off. Did a whistle blow? We ran and we laughed. I was drenched. I was back. We ran down the street and we laughed.

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