I should have done my revision, today.
I should have found a place to live
I should have met my friends and rejoiced.
I should have gone to galleries and wondered.
I should have written or read or worked or played.
Instead I sat and waited for your call. Your e-mail. Your message.
I am a shadow.
Saturday, 15 October 2011
Wednesday, 12 October 2011
Monday, 10 October 2011
Stream [third passing]
Dialogue: literary work consisting of a conversation between two or more persons. From the Greek, dialogos, then the Latin dialogus and finally to the French Dialoge. A word so perfect in its construction that nigh on three thousand years of language bastardisation cannot alter it.
Duologue: "a conversation between two persons".
Which would I prefer. The intellectual in me loves the fact that we are being reckless with our thoughts and feelings now. The world and his wife and her husband could be part of our exchange. A literary work created by two minds interacting. It's post-modern, it's exciting; we could package it and sell it. But then I worry that she is holding back, choosing her words more carefully, applying selective topiary to the sprouting thoughts that blossom from her mind. Is she being more open or less, applying different standards to this new medium. The intellectual is over-ridden. I want it to be literary, to be high brow. I also desire her to be exclusively mine. I want her thoughts, her attention. So here is my dilemma - in duologue the conversation will only ever revolve around me and her and us. The dialogue allows so much more - I may observe the varying facets of her personality as she wishes to be portrayed to the whole world and not just to me.
To watch her flirt would be very much the same. I could watch her talents at work, employing the various smiles at will like an master painter selecting the correct shade of red to crest that petal. I could observe her at her sexiest, holding a little back but giving a way at the same time. Engaging, jousting, touching - opening her wit and her charm and her raw sexual musk. I would be insanely jealous of every second that the bright beam of her attention was not illuminating me, but that would have nothing to do with the flirting, or the allure. She could be walking a pensioner to the 4th of July parade and I would feel the same; talking to the other hockey moms across the fence; dancing a swing-dance I could never hope to co-ordinate. It is her attention I crave and I cannot hold that eternally. Knowing that she will not shine upon me, the focus of her attention is irrelevant, I need not know or care, for in the important moments between sunset and sunrise, between kissing and breathing, between songs and between sonnets and between the sheets, then she would be mine and I would be hers.
Indeed, the opposite is true: to know that for all that flirting, for all that focus she would bring to bear upon her victim was in vain, that in the end her mind, and her body, and her cunt were all mine, branded and chained with a single link: that would be a powerful aphrodisiac indeed.
Eat.
So ends the third.
Duologue: "a conversation between two persons".
Which would I prefer. The intellectual in me loves the fact that we are being reckless with our thoughts and feelings now. The world and his wife and her husband could be part of our exchange. A literary work created by two minds interacting. It's post-modern, it's exciting; we could package it and sell it. But then I worry that she is holding back, choosing her words more carefully, applying selective topiary to the sprouting thoughts that blossom from her mind. Is she being more open or less, applying different standards to this new medium. The intellectual is over-ridden. I want it to be literary, to be high brow. I also desire her to be exclusively mine. I want her thoughts, her attention. So here is my dilemma - in duologue the conversation will only ever revolve around me and her and us. The dialogue allows so much more - I may observe the varying facets of her personality as she wishes to be portrayed to the whole world and not just to me.
To watch her flirt would be very much the same. I could watch her talents at work, employing the various smiles at will like an master painter selecting the correct shade of red to crest that petal. I could observe her at her sexiest, holding a little back but giving a way at the same time. Engaging, jousting, touching - opening her wit and her charm and her raw sexual musk. I would be insanely jealous of every second that the bright beam of her attention was not illuminating me, but that would have nothing to do with the flirting, or the allure. She could be walking a pensioner to the 4th of July parade and I would feel the same; talking to the other hockey moms across the fence; dancing a swing-dance I could never hope to co-ordinate. It is her attention I crave and I cannot hold that eternally. Knowing that she will not shine upon me, the focus of her attention is irrelevant, I need not know or care, for in the important moments between sunset and sunrise, between kissing and breathing, between songs and between sonnets and between the sheets, then she would be mine and I would be hers.
Indeed, the opposite is true: to know that for all that flirting, for all that focus she would bring to bear upon her victim was in vain, that in the end her mind, and her body, and her cunt were all mine, branded and chained with a single link: that would be a powerful aphrodisiac indeed.
Eat.
So ends the third.
Off Topic
It's a bit of a random one, and I'm pretty sure no-one reads this anyway but hell, I nominated the guy so I'm using every avenue to promote his campaign.
If you went to Cambridge, and you're around this weekend - vote for Brian.
http://brianforcam.appspot.com/who-can-vote
If you went to Cambridge, and you're around this weekend - vote for Brian.
http://brianforcam.appspot.com/who-can-vote
Stream [second passing]
What next, she asked, knowing that I had no answer that I wished to give. I did not wish to make that thing real. What next, she asked again, pushing me into a corner of admission and submission. There is no next step, physically. We do what we have always done. Share secrets, share thoughts, try and exhaust ourselves on each other, hoping that one day the rough waves of passion will erode down the solidity of ourselves into grains of sand to be washed away.
This is the next step. Each post, each word I share, each thought and emotion laid bare. I will empty my soul into ink, into the void of the internet, pour out every drop of myself until I have nothing left to give, till I bore you and you see me laid out skinned and empty as nothingness. I want you to consume all of me, every scrap of muscle, every spark of thought, it is yours, it is yours to do with as you will. When I am finally spent, when I am bloodless, and without strength or meaning, you may discard me on the winds. I will dissolve into the air and be gone.
I will be dead in thirty years and all I wish is to leave a legacy, to be a page in history, something beyond my mortal corpus. Such a remembrance to be consumed by your mind, to be in your heart always, affecting your choices, your decisions, to be in your bed and your work. To be in every chakra and every book. Take me, take all that is mine, all that I have been and make it one with you. I will entwine myself about your very nerves so that each thing touched is an embrace, each morsel consumed is a meal shared, each breath is my sweetest kiss.
This is my next step. And every step. I only have so many memories to share, such paucity of years, such naivity of experience. Oh, to have lived a thousand years and have wonders to tell of. Alas, one day I will have but the substance of memory and dreams. Then there are no more steps. No more road to travel. Until then, all I may do is give myself to you, utterly and with my own consent.
Toil.
So ends the second.
This is the next step. Each post, each word I share, each thought and emotion laid bare. I will empty my soul into ink, into the void of the internet, pour out every drop of myself until I have nothing left to give, till I bore you and you see me laid out skinned and empty as nothingness. I want you to consume all of me, every scrap of muscle, every spark of thought, it is yours, it is yours to do with as you will. When I am finally spent, when I am bloodless, and without strength or meaning, you may discard me on the winds. I will dissolve into the air and be gone.
I will be dead in thirty years and all I wish is to leave a legacy, to be a page in history, something beyond my mortal corpus. Such a remembrance to be consumed by your mind, to be in your heart always, affecting your choices, your decisions, to be in your bed and your work. To be in every chakra and every book. Take me, take all that is mine, all that I have been and make it one with you. I will entwine myself about your very nerves so that each thing touched is an embrace, each morsel consumed is a meal shared, each breath is my sweetest kiss.
This is my next step. And every step. I only have so many memories to share, such paucity of years, such naivity of experience. Oh, to have lived a thousand years and have wonders to tell of. Alas, one day I will have but the substance of memory and dreams. Then there are no more steps. No more road to travel. Until then, all I may do is give myself to you, utterly and with my own consent.
Toil.
So ends the second.
Stream [first passing]
Five hours sleep last night. An hour of that after the alarm clock. I take my caffiene in medicinal portions these days - small sugary, caffinated, taurinated drinks. Maximum effectiveness. I used to drink them to ensure maximum performance. Now I drink them just to perform at all. My heart races. Is it sleep-deprivation? Caffiene? Or the thought of her? The first two exacerbate, the last is the cause.
Last night we lay down together again, unable to touch but seperated only by the flimsiest of screens. Like a child I clawed at her, trying to make contact however I could. Telephone, the written word, the video screen - large and small. I stole the intangible, but stole nonetheless, to spend ten more minutes, five more minute, one more minute basking in her pale backlit glow.
I caught her scent for the first time last night. Remembered it. I never told her how she smelt - she would not have appreciated the compliment. Do not smell girl's hair. It is too intimate. As we lay in bed afterwards, she shut me out with fairy-stories, and I held her tight with one arm, enjoying her warmth, her softness. In the pale-light of pre-dawn I put my face in the tangle of her hair, twisted and unravelled by sex. She smelt of smoke, and come, and the sea. She smelt like adventure and coming home and leaving and staying. I breathed in deeply, her ears shut to the sound, safe.
Last night I smelt her again. I remember smells. The smell of my mother on a Sunday morning, porridge and toast on the table, just before she opened the milk and poured on the cream. The smell of my grandfather, tobbacco'd and oiled. The smell of school books, the dust on the gymnasium floor, the putrid canteen. I remember the smell of the first girl I kissed, cheap lipstick, cheap perfume. The smell of rugby is my favourite: the smell of leaves just fallen, the chill of winter coming, the sweat, the salves, the anger, blood, the bitter bite of adrenaline. The smell of war. Every year the smell of rugby haunts me.
Last night I smelt her again and I nearly laughed. She wanted to know. "What? What? Tell me. Tell me." She was playful, but demanding. She always tries to hide it behind her smiles or her laughter or some coy distraction but when she wants something there is always the thin steel edge. Demanding not asking. It arouses me. I think there are few who can resist her in that mood. The edge flashes out like a flick-knife. I try to disarm the passion with a few charming words, to distill some of the tension and lock it away for later. She will not tolerate it: "It's difficult because we love each other." Concise, accurate, pointed, straight to the heart of the matter, straight to my heart. Her words are like rapiers, and each word stabs. There is more pleasure in this pain than all the scented, silked harems in the world.
Awaken.
So ends the first.
Last night we lay down together again, unable to touch but seperated only by the flimsiest of screens. Like a child I clawed at her, trying to make contact however I could. Telephone, the written word, the video screen - large and small. I stole the intangible, but stole nonetheless, to spend ten more minutes, five more minute, one more minute basking in her pale backlit glow.
I caught her scent for the first time last night. Remembered it. I never told her how she smelt - she would not have appreciated the compliment. Do not smell girl's hair. It is too intimate. As we lay in bed afterwards, she shut me out with fairy-stories, and I held her tight with one arm, enjoying her warmth, her softness. In the pale-light of pre-dawn I put my face in the tangle of her hair, twisted and unravelled by sex. She smelt of smoke, and come, and the sea. She smelt like adventure and coming home and leaving and staying. I breathed in deeply, her ears shut to the sound, safe.
Last night I smelt her again. I remember smells. The smell of my mother on a Sunday morning, porridge and toast on the table, just before she opened the milk and poured on the cream. The smell of my grandfather, tobbacco'd and oiled. The smell of school books, the dust on the gymnasium floor, the putrid canteen. I remember the smell of the first girl I kissed, cheap lipstick, cheap perfume. The smell of rugby is my favourite: the smell of leaves just fallen, the chill of winter coming, the sweat, the salves, the anger, blood, the bitter bite of adrenaline. The smell of war. Every year the smell of rugby haunts me.
Last night I smelt her again and I nearly laughed. She wanted to know. "What? What? Tell me. Tell me." She was playful, but demanding. She always tries to hide it behind her smiles or her laughter or some coy distraction but when she wants something there is always the thin steel edge. Demanding not asking. It arouses me. I think there are few who can resist her in that mood. The edge flashes out like a flick-knife. I try to disarm the passion with a few charming words, to distill some of the tension and lock it away for later. She will not tolerate it: "It's difficult because we love each other." Concise, accurate, pointed, straight to the heart of the matter, straight to my heart. Her words are like rapiers, and each word stabs. There is more pleasure in this pain than all the scented, silked harems in the world.
Awaken.
So ends the first.
Sunday, 9 October 2011
Do not go gently
It's over.
It's really over.
And it is all my fault. I gave her the means and I gave her the reason.
I told her that until you tell someone a thing you don't make it real. If it's just inside your head, or just a secret between the two of you then it has no independent existence, no life - it isn't real. To become a part of history it must be observed.
And now she has made it real. It is a thing to be read. No-one will know it is us. It will an anonymous tale of two anonymous lovers but it is real now. From beginning to end. All stories have an ending but this should have been an epic novel spanning volumes before coming to some wonderful dramatic climax, not some flimsy novella to be absorbed and discarded.
Two people so much alike, divided. This could have been amazing.
I am undone.
It's really over.
And it is all my fault. I gave her the means and I gave her the reason.
I told her that until you tell someone a thing you don't make it real. If it's just inside your head, or just a secret between the two of you then it has no independent existence, no life - it isn't real. To become a part of history it must be observed.
And now she has made it real. It is a thing to be read. No-one will know it is us. It will an anonymous tale of two anonymous lovers but it is real now. From beginning to end. All stories have an ending but this should have been an epic novel spanning volumes before coming to some wonderful dramatic climax, not some flimsy novella to be absorbed and discarded.
Two people so much alike, divided. This could have been amazing.
I am undone.
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