Is all of your own making.
+++
Probably.
+++
30.11.07
29.11.07
thinking ahead to beyond midnight, a half hour before it dawns
Today, I shall be divorced. The word itself begs the question:
From what? My wife and I separated a long time ago now.
We are already divorced in all but name. Without ever going
Through the stages. One minute we were drinking and laughing.
The next we were done. I shall be divorced from my wife,
But I fear I shall be divorced from more than that which has
Already come to pass. Divorced from the land of dreams?
Some would say I did this then, the moment I betrayed a
Marriage vow I never took. I don’t believe so. Which in itself
Was enough to precipitate divorce. Whatever it might prove
To be, and as the unmade bed of words suggests, 'it' has
Slipped my neat parameters, I know that 'it', the it from which
I shall be divorced today, has left me lacking, has left me
Sadder than I wanted to have been left, has left me more
Stupid and more wise than I had hoped I should need to be,
Come this point in my waking, my thinking, my bed-making.
23.39 GMT
+++
From what? My wife and I separated a long time ago now.
We are already divorced in all but name. Without ever going
Through the stages. One minute we were drinking and laughing.
The next we were done. I shall be divorced from my wife,
But I fear I shall be divorced from more than that which has
Already come to pass. Divorced from the land of dreams?
Some would say I did this then, the moment I betrayed a
Marriage vow I never took. I don’t believe so. Which in itself
Was enough to precipitate divorce. Whatever it might prove
To be, and as the unmade bed of words suggests, 'it' has
Slipped my neat parameters, I know that 'it', the it from which
I shall be divorced today, has left me lacking, has left me
Sadder than I wanted to have been left, has left me more
Stupid and more wise than I had hoped I should need to be,
Come this point in my waking, my thinking, my bed-making.
23.39 GMT
+++
27.11.07
ships in the night
People who feel themselves to be in some way 'difficult' will search for someone they believe is strong enough to help them negotiate a world they are unsuited for.
+++
In the belief and/or hope that that person will become their anchor.
+++
That person's strength may well have been born out of their ability to manage their own difficulties. For who is truly suited to this world?
+++
They in turn will be searching for their anchor.
+++
Who, unfortunately, is as likely as not to not be the one that they themselves anchor.
+++
Which is why, even in the most apparently stable of relationships, one or the other or even both partners can appear listless. Unsure if they are drifting or not. Unsure if their anchor is fixed to the seabed, ready for the storm, or just tangled up in weeds.
+++
+++
In the belief and/or hope that that person will become their anchor.
+++
That person's strength may well have been born out of their ability to manage their own difficulties. For who is truly suited to this world?
+++
They in turn will be searching for their anchor.
+++
Who, unfortunately, is as likely as not to not be the one that they themselves anchor.
+++
Which is why, even in the most apparently stable of relationships, one or the other or even both partners can appear listless. Unsure if they are drifting or not. Unsure if their anchor is fixed to the seabed, ready for the storm, or just tangled up in weeds.
+++
west london tales 3
The concierge is a short silver haired dapper Spaniard called José. In his booth there are pictures of Muhammad Ali, other boxers, and José in Spain cradling a small child. José’s hours are something like 2 to 11, five days a week.
José’s always worried. When G moved in, he thought they might have relaxed Hispanic conversations. But José wants none of it. He nods, rather than greets. His eyes bore in on the visitor. No one gets past him. All to the good in a concierge.
At ten o’clock on a chilly November night, José was out on the street, wearing his blazer, looking agitated. Across the street, at the head of the path across the tracks, was a group of half a dozen hooded figures, poised on bikes. They were lined up on one side of the road, José, brandishing his mobile phone, on the other.
The kids didn’t do much. They didn’t have to. They intimidated through mere presence. G observed them from his window. People coming past them up the path walked at double speed.
One of the hooded walked ten metres down the path and crouched. A few moments later a small bonfire was ablaze.
Seconds later the first police car arrived. The kids, like a herd of bison scenting a lion, peered from the pedals of their bikes, then turned and dashed down the path, past the bonfire.
The police car slid to a halt. José was there, in the road, mobile in his hand, gesticulating. A shirt sleeved policeman climbed out of the car. He strolled down the path, in no hurry. José buzzed around the scene. A second policeman stamped the bonfire out.
The fire engine arrived moments later.
The kids had gone.
Within ten minutes, the officials had left the scene. Calm was restored to the night.
Another shift was almost over.
+++
José’s always worried. When G moved in, he thought they might have relaxed Hispanic conversations. But José wants none of it. He nods, rather than greets. His eyes bore in on the visitor. No one gets past him. All to the good in a concierge.
At ten o’clock on a chilly November night, José was out on the street, wearing his blazer, looking agitated. Across the street, at the head of the path across the tracks, was a group of half a dozen hooded figures, poised on bikes. They were lined up on one side of the road, José, brandishing his mobile phone, on the other.
The kids didn’t do much. They didn’t have to. They intimidated through mere presence. G observed them from his window. People coming past them up the path walked at double speed.
One of the hooded walked ten metres down the path and crouched. A few moments later a small bonfire was ablaze.
Seconds later the first police car arrived. The kids, like a herd of bison scenting a lion, peered from the pedals of their bikes, then turned and dashed down the path, past the bonfire.
The police car slid to a halt. José was there, in the road, mobile in his hand, gesticulating. A shirt sleeved policeman climbed out of the car. He strolled down the path, in no hurry. José buzzed around the scene. A second policeman stamped the bonfire out.
The fire engine arrived moments later.
The kids had gone.
Within ten minutes, the officials had left the scene. Calm was restored to the night.
Another shift was almost over.
+++
23.11.07
nostalgia
La memoria es un parte detalle, y otra parte sensacion. Ser preciso no es lo mas importante. Lo mas importante es ser justo.
+++
+++
too much information
Anyone who feels the need to inform you of the fact that they're a free spirit.
Probably isn't.
+++
Probably isn't.
+++
20.11.07
west london tales 2
He looked out of the window and saw a van driving too slowly down the road, which came to a dead end beneath the Westway. It was a nondescript white van. It got to the end of the road and turned around, still moving at a crawl. As he’d half-expected, the phone rang.
The driver said he was on the street. G answered that he knew. He could see him. There are only two residential addresses on the street, both blocks of flats. He told him to come to the first, and went down to collect him.
There was a kid sitting in the passenger seat of the van. The driver said:
Do you know how heavy it is?
G said he didn’t.
It’s 75 kilos, the kid said, holding a clipboard.
G said he didn’t know how heavy that was.
Put it this way, the driver said, I never carry anything more than twenty kilos on my own.
They went to the back of the van, the kid staying in his seat. There were about half a dozen boxed mattresses there. The driver started pulling one out. It was heavy.
That’s a good mattress you’ve got there, the driver said. You can tell by the weight.
The mattress was boxed. The driver said the best thing to do was take the box off, so they could fit it in the lift. They carried it round and squeezed it in, before dragging it down from the twelfth to the eleventh floor, the mezzanine floor.
Once they’d got it there, G told the driver he was OK, he’d get it in and onto the bed on his own. The driver had already come from Barking and had a whole load more drops to make.
G dragged the mattress in to the hallway, before stripping the bed and removing the old futon mattress, which had lain so heavily on the bed, nine years of ownership baring into his back. The new mattress was bigger and heavier than he’d imagined it would be. He’d been hoping for a low bed to go with the low ceiling. With this one you could see out of the window, all the way to Wembley stadium, lying down.
He made the bed up and tested it out, remembering what the man had said. It was a good mattress. He got used to it, felt the way it supported his weight. It was surprisingly good. He turned and looked out of the window. He could see right over West London. Just lying there on the bed.
G got up and collected the post together that needed sending and readied himself to go out.
The phone rang.
It was the driver.
I suppose you’ve already taken the mattress out of the plastic and everything, the driver said.
G told him he had.
It’s just – I’ve only gone and given you the wrong mattress, haven’t I?
Fifteen minutes later the driver buzzed on his door. He’d brought up the cardboard cover which had been lying where he’d left it. Together, he and G did a makeshift job of replacing the plastic sheeting and assembling the cardboard over the mattress.
They dragged it down a flight of stairs to the tenth floor and squeezed it into the lift. It hadn’t got any lighter. In the lift the driver told him this had set him back half an hour. He was having a hell of a day. His wife had unexpectedly had to go to work, which was why their son was sitting in the van.
They lugged the mattress back to the van. The driver’s son stayed in the van. The driver dragged G’s actual mattress out of the back and stripped the clean cardboard from it and took his time putting it over the heavy mattress, so it looked nearly as good as new.
They carried G’s new mattress over to the lift, and squeezed it in. G told the driver he’d be alright with it on the stairs. It wasn’t very big. And it wasn’t very heavy. It wasn’t very heavy at all.
+++
The driver said he was on the street. G answered that he knew. He could see him. There are only two residential addresses on the street, both blocks of flats. He told him to come to the first, and went down to collect him.
There was a kid sitting in the passenger seat of the van. The driver said:
Do you know how heavy it is?
G said he didn’t.
It’s 75 kilos, the kid said, holding a clipboard.
G said he didn’t know how heavy that was.
Put it this way, the driver said, I never carry anything more than twenty kilos on my own.
They went to the back of the van, the kid staying in his seat. There were about half a dozen boxed mattresses there. The driver started pulling one out. It was heavy.
That’s a good mattress you’ve got there, the driver said. You can tell by the weight.
The mattress was boxed. The driver said the best thing to do was take the box off, so they could fit it in the lift. They carried it round and squeezed it in, before dragging it down from the twelfth to the eleventh floor, the mezzanine floor.
Once they’d got it there, G told the driver he was OK, he’d get it in and onto the bed on his own. The driver had already come from Barking and had a whole load more drops to make.
G dragged the mattress in to the hallway, before stripping the bed and removing the old futon mattress, which had lain so heavily on the bed, nine years of ownership baring into his back. The new mattress was bigger and heavier than he’d imagined it would be. He’d been hoping for a low bed to go with the low ceiling. With this one you could see out of the window, all the way to Wembley stadium, lying down.
He made the bed up and tested it out, remembering what the man had said. It was a good mattress. He got used to it, felt the way it supported his weight. It was surprisingly good. He turned and looked out of the window. He could see right over West London. Just lying there on the bed.
G got up and collected the post together that needed sending and readied himself to go out.
The phone rang.
It was the driver.
I suppose you’ve already taken the mattress out of the plastic and everything, the driver said.
G told him he had.
It’s just – I’ve only gone and given you the wrong mattress, haven’t I?
Fifteen minutes later the driver buzzed on his door. He’d brought up the cardboard cover which had been lying where he’d left it. Together, he and G did a makeshift job of replacing the plastic sheeting and assembling the cardboard over the mattress.
They dragged it down a flight of stairs to the tenth floor and squeezed it into the lift. It hadn’t got any lighter. In the lift the driver told him this had set him back half an hour. He was having a hell of a day. His wife had unexpectedly had to go to work, which was why their son was sitting in the van.
They lugged the mattress back to the van. The driver’s son stayed in the van. The driver dragged G’s actual mattress out of the back and stripped the clean cardboard from it and took his time putting it over the heavy mattress, so it looked nearly as good as new.
They carried G’s new mattress over to the lift, and squeezed it in. G told the driver he’d be alright with it on the stairs. It wasn’t very big. And it wasn’t very heavy. It wasn’t very heavy at all.
+++
19.11.07
west london tales 1
The door is heavy on the hinges. Since the weather turned, it hasn’t wanted to shut. The other day he noticed the hinges had become loose. On his way out to get some bread, he remembered to pick up a screwdriver to tighten the screws. The door closed shut and he still had the screwdriver in his hand. For a moment he thought about posting it through the letter box, then decided to stick it in the back pocket of his jeans.
The scaffolding was going up in earnest now. Men with hard hats were calling for things he’d never heard of. He walked round the corner onto the Harrow Road. The traffic was still being held up by the temporary traffic light. He nipped across the road, in between the stationary cars.
As he did so he felt something fall from his pocket. He stopped, looking up to see if the traffic was still moving, then darted to pick up the screwdriver. Looking up as he turned towards the pavement, he saw a police van directly in front of him.
He went to one of the two Arabic grocers and tried to choose some tomatoes. As he stood making up his mind, a policeman approached him.
Would you mind stepping this way please.
He stepped away from the shop. The policeman was young, with specs and tawny hair. A policewoman stood beside him.
What’s the screwdriver for? The policeman asked.
The explanation was profound. He pointed at his block of flats and talked at length about hinges.
It’s just you looked a bit suspicious, that’s all. You don’t look like a car thief, but you looked suspicious.
He acknowledged he probably did look suspicious.
Can I just have your name please, sir, just to say I spoke to you.
He gave the young policeman his name.
The policeman and woman got into the police van and headed off.
He turned back to the grocer’s. A group of Arabic men were gathered outside, looking at him with curiosity. He chose some tomatoes.
What did they want, the shop owner asked. The others were listening in.
Nothing really, he said.
They are all crazy, the shop owner told him.
Yes, he said, they probably are.
He chose some fruit juice then went over to pay.
Be careful out there, the Arabic shop owner said with a benevolent smile.
+++
The scaffolding was going up in earnest now. Men with hard hats were calling for things he’d never heard of. He walked round the corner onto the Harrow Road. The traffic was still being held up by the temporary traffic light. He nipped across the road, in between the stationary cars.
As he did so he felt something fall from his pocket. He stopped, looking up to see if the traffic was still moving, then darted to pick up the screwdriver. Looking up as he turned towards the pavement, he saw a police van directly in front of him.
He went to one of the two Arabic grocers and tried to choose some tomatoes. As he stood making up his mind, a policeman approached him.
Would you mind stepping this way please.
He stepped away from the shop. The policeman was young, with specs and tawny hair. A policewoman stood beside him.
What’s the screwdriver for? The policeman asked.
The explanation was profound. He pointed at his block of flats and talked at length about hinges.
It’s just you looked a bit suspicious, that’s all. You don’t look like a car thief, but you looked suspicious.
He acknowledged he probably did look suspicious.
Can I just have your name please, sir, just to say I spoke to you.
He gave the young policeman his name.
The policeman and woman got into the police van and headed off.
He turned back to the grocer’s. A group of Arabic men were gathered outside, looking at him with curiosity. He chose some tomatoes.
What did they want, the shop owner asked. The others were listening in.
Nothing really, he said.
They are all crazy, the shop owner told him.
Yes, he said, they probably are.
He chose some fruit juice then went over to pay.
Be careful out there, the Arabic shop owner said with a benevolent smile.
+++
17.11.07
on flattery
The compliments someone chooses to give you are a reflection of the way in which they would like to be perceived themselves.
+++
+++
16.11.07
social engineering
The teacher sells himself as cynically as any charlatan.
Both have similar things to pedal:
Ointments for the betterment of the soul; Techniques for self-improvement; Learning of the ages.
+++
Both have similar things to pedal:
Ointments for the betterment of the soul; Techniques for self-improvement; Learning of the ages.
+++
age shall wither us...
What happens to writers as they get older is that they become more and more removed from their material. They have already been through two journeys. The journey into life, which has generated their material; and the journey out, which has given them the perspective from which they have created their work. To embark on another journey appears to be to run the risk of abandoning that hard-won perspective.
Not to do so, however, provokes the onset of atrophy; the gradual recession from the material which inspired in the first place. The writer doesn't tire so much as lose touch. In the end, all that remains is the schemata of the world the writer once knew. All that is left to write are the bones of the body.
This might suit some: those who always aspired to an other-wordly purity.
+++
Not to do so, however, provokes the onset of atrophy; the gradual recession from the material which inspired in the first place. The writer doesn't tire so much as lose touch. In the end, all that remains is the schemata of the world the writer once knew. All that is left to write are the bones of the body.
This might suit some: those who always aspired to an other-wordly purity.
+++
12.11.07
an apology for idleness
For years people measured their worth and their self-worth according to their labour.
+++
The idle man or woman was an unproductive drain on society. Creating nothing, generating no wealth.
+++
Now, we might be on the cusp of a world where the idle man or woman is the most worthwhile member of society.
+++
The one who has consumed least, polluted least, destroyed least, been the least precipitate in the rush towards the annihilation of the world as we know it.
+++
If the whole of Western society had been blessed with idleness, the air might still be clean, the seas full of fish, the jungles green worlds of their own.
+++
+++
The idle man or woman was an unproductive drain on society. Creating nothing, generating no wealth.
+++
Now, we might be on the cusp of a world where the idle man or woman is the most worthwhile member of society.
+++
The one who has consumed least, polluted least, destroyed least, been the least precipitate in the rush towards the annihilation of the world as we know it.
+++
If the whole of Western society had been blessed with idleness, the air might still be clean, the seas full of fish, the jungles green worlds of their own.
+++
on your marx, get set, go
Who is the arbiter of your time?
Who is the one who decrees its value?
Who says an hour at a desk or a coal face is of more value than an hour on the beach or with your nose in a book?
For both yourself and humanity as a whole.
Count the hours.
Someone else is.
Working out what to do with them.
+++
Who is the one who decrees its value?
Who says an hour at a desk or a coal face is of more value than an hour on the beach or with your nose in a book?
For both yourself and humanity as a whole.
Count the hours.
Someone else is.
Working out what to do with them.
+++
the price of honour
Wisdom has it that those most inclined to err will be those most likely to forgive.
+++
This depends on whether they resist the inclination or succumb.
+++
If they succeed in resisting the inclination to err, they will be hard pressed to forgive.
+++
For they will have become exhausted by their constant striving for perfection.
+++
Their patience eroded on the rocky shore of their good behaviour.
+++
+++
This depends on whether they resist the inclination or succumb.
+++
If they succeed in resisting the inclination to err, they will be hard pressed to forgive.
+++
For they will have become exhausted by their constant striving for perfection.
+++
Their patience eroded on the rocky shore of their good behaviour.
+++
7.11.07
priors barton adieu
A picture in the paper of birds in flock, which takes me back
To those days I’d walk across the fields, primed to vault the
Gate and scale the wall and break into my home, and as
I crossed the green lawn, dusk beckoning, the trees turning,
A swarm of swallows or swifts or some other species would
Pirouette in unison through three degrees, gathered
For one last hurrah before the voyage out, or home,
Depending on their point of view. I’d stand and stare and
Envy their departure to lands enchanted, dusky summer
Nights, tirelessly rolling out like the great green sward
I strolled across, on the way to my home, which now stands
This morning, on the very tip of dispossession, as we
Fly the roost for the final time, leaving the curved bay
Behind, setting forth on our voyage out, or home,
Depending on the perspective we choose to take.
7th November 2007 09.30am
+++
To those days I’d walk across the fields, primed to vault the
Gate and scale the wall and break into my home, and as
I crossed the green lawn, dusk beckoning, the trees turning,
A swarm of swallows or swifts or some other species would
Pirouette in unison through three degrees, gathered
For one last hurrah before the voyage out, or home,
Depending on their point of view. I’d stand and stare and
Envy their departure to lands enchanted, dusky summer
Nights, tirelessly rolling out like the great green sward
I strolled across, on the way to my home, which now stands
This morning, on the very tip of dispossession, as we
Fly the roost for the final time, leaving the curved bay
Behind, setting forth on our voyage out, or home,
Depending on the perspective we choose to take.
7th November 2007 09.30am
+++
6.11.07
two stockwell poems
The Foot On The Stair
Just outside my door is an iron balcony.
Which you reach by a spiral staircase.
When a visitor arrives, you hear the clank
Of boot on metal, long before you see their face.
Sometimes you hear people who never arrive. You
Wonder who they might have been, which long-lost
Friend whose spirit hesitated then turned,
Rather than take up the tangle of our untied strings.
Billy Parham rode South three times across the border. The last
Time was the only one he got what he was after,
Though it wasn’t what he wanted. He learnt the dead
Have more power than the living, even before they know they’re dead.
He visited me just now. Creeping in silently through a
Back door we haven’t got. Like an old testament
Prophet, singing songs of the past to remind us
Of the future. He dug up their bones and brought the ghosts to life.
They never rest. He’s been teaching me. They’re but a footstep
Away, out on the ironwork, peering through the
Door, threatening to come in. I hear their step and turn.
Then they disappear. Never far away. But never very close,
Neither.
+++
Untitled
Someone leaves offerings at our front gate almost
Every morning. They must come between the hours of
Three and seven. The nightjay serves up all kinds of
Dishes: frozen burgers, potato peelings, sliced
Bread. We don’t know their name or motive. We don’t know
If they watch from afar, waiting for the moment
The door is opened. Perhaps they don’t care: the door
Has been selected as a random point in a
Universe, leading to a god long forgotten.
It reminds me of the Playa by the gasworks,
Where I was told not to disturb the candles or
The food left to Jemanja, the sea god. To touch
Would be to conjure a curse, for only the sea
Should claim what is left for it. I kick our leavings
Aside, or skip daintily over the latest
Prayer of red cabbage, garlanded with carrot peel.
27.03.97
+++
Just outside my door is an iron balcony.
Which you reach by a spiral staircase.
When a visitor arrives, you hear the clank
Of boot on metal, long before you see their face.
Sometimes you hear people who never arrive. You
Wonder who they might have been, which long-lost
Friend whose spirit hesitated then turned,
Rather than take up the tangle of our untied strings.
Billy Parham rode South three times across the border. The last
Time was the only one he got what he was after,
Though it wasn’t what he wanted. He learnt the dead
Have more power than the living, even before they know they’re dead.
He visited me just now. Creeping in silently through a
Back door we haven’t got. Like an old testament
Prophet, singing songs of the past to remind us
Of the future. He dug up their bones and brought the ghosts to life.
They never rest. He’s been teaching me. They’re but a footstep
Away, out on the ironwork, peering through the
Door, threatening to come in. I hear their step and turn.
Then they disappear. Never far away. But never very close,
Neither.
+++
Untitled
Someone leaves offerings at our front gate almost
Every morning. They must come between the hours of
Three and seven. The nightjay serves up all kinds of
Dishes: frozen burgers, potato peelings, sliced
Bread. We don’t know their name or motive. We don’t know
If they watch from afar, waiting for the moment
The door is opened. Perhaps they don’t care: the door
Has been selected as a random point in a
Universe, leading to a god long forgotten.
It reminds me of the Playa by the gasworks,
Where I was told not to disturb the candles or
The food left to Jemanja, the sea god. To touch
Would be to conjure a curse, for only the sea
Should claim what is left for it. I kick our leavings
Aside, or skip daintily over the latest
Prayer of red cabbage, garlanded with carrot peel.
27.03.97
+++
2.11.07
the artabatirae
"towards the west [of the Aithiopian kingdom of Meroe] are . . . the Artabatirae, who have four legs and rove about like wild animals" Pliny the Elder, Natural History
+++
It should never be forgotten that the power of the image is far greater than the word.
+++
The creation of moving, reproducible images might have changed the world more than any other invention.
+++
The image is seductive. It beseeches covetousness. The eyes swallow images like candy.
+++
Nothing is more likely to make an individual want to change their life than the sight of an image.
+++
Even though, no matter how authentic the image appears, it is never anything more than a rumour.
+++
+++
It should never be forgotten that the power of the image is far greater than the word.
+++
The creation of moving, reproducible images might have changed the world more than any other invention.
+++
The image is seductive. It beseeches covetousness. The eyes swallow images like candy.
+++
Nothing is more likely to make an individual want to change their life than the sight of an image.
+++
Even though, no matter how authentic the image appears, it is never anything more than a rumour.
+++
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