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Thursday, 15 June 2006
Pushing nouns.
To approach anything after the inactivity of yesterday seems foolhardy. Today, a long day of work ahead, finishing just before sundown no doubt. The heat has begun to stir life into the air, and I wake with astute timing and a sense of needing to get up. Immediately out of the house into the warming, fresh air. To the local shop, butter and milk.
Yesterday, I pushed nouns around and got nowhere. Taking genius modern poets as stable and hay, I thought long and hard about location and leaving, the dynamics of a twosome, your feint sleeping breath. All was abandoned under the heat of eleven though and instead I turned to losing myself in wound plot and tightened narrative, the antidote of poetry's permeable fences.
A walk in the park, sat awhile watching people exercising across the newly mown moor, a little haze propped up over the racks of houses stretching away, firstly up to the west road and then down towards the river. Three towers stood solemn, shimmering. People played in teams and rode bicycles, fathers grew competitive.
Then an evening of listening. To each other, to guitar and drums, to droning IDM, to comment and speculation. Interruptions aside, the heat fell from the night. We continued to listen, slow and with intent. The road rose occasionally with the sound of tires. The diagonal scuffles of a night-walker dropped in through the held window. He, drowsing by street-light, faltered at each kerb and held his hands up to the sky, approaching nothing.
11:30 Posted in Confessional | Permalink | Comments (0) | Email this