Pub crawl...

Shiny lights, sweaty costumes, smearing make-up.

Knowing giggles condense to numbing hum.

Millipede tangle to Bacchanalian torpor,

The creepy, crawly, touchy, feely, unknowing creature crawls...

On to the next pub.

Ghostwriting & Marginalia.

..

Ghostwriting & Marginalia.

Ghostwriter.

I haunt these words. 

I hear their steps.

They pause...

But I remain static.

I haunt these words.

I am type-cast.

This cursor beating heart.

I hear them coming.

I feel them standing over me.

Ghostwriting.

I am this corpse.

I fear they think me dead, yet

I haunt these words.

Locked in, comatic,

Powerless to act, yet

I haunt these words.

They sharpen scalpels.

They take its organs.

They take its eyes.

They see nothing.

I am this ghostwriter.

Post scriptum

Post mortem.

Alive and Whole.

I haunt these words.

Marginalia.

"Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;

Our meddling intellect

Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:—

We murder to dissect."

William Wordsworth.

At heart.

How do we perceive a heart beating?

There is a space which keeps us breathing, breathing together.

How does together feel?

How do we express together?



We are as of one.

We are embryonically aware of being contained.

We are precognitively aware of being connected.

Air cries out.

A light.

A cry.

A limb stretched out.

A hand grasps.

How does out feel?

We are babe in arms.

Familiar heart beating.
Beats aside of ours.
We are babe in arms.
Foetus no more.

Hunger, pangs of thirst, fear.

How does hunger pain us?
How do we express thirst?

Away from us...

How do we fear movement away?
What is away?

I am apart

How does singularity feel?
How do we express being a part, being apart?

I am desire.

Hunger  to move?

Thirst to know?

WHAT? 

WHY?

How do we feel to?
How do we know to be away?
How do we move away from us?

I feel I am, I recognise I am.

There is fear of being singular.
There is desire for being a part.

Recognise my singularity.
Recognise my longing.

I explore, I stretch out.

How far am I?
How far am I from the edge of my reason?

I take courage, I feel fear beaten.

I am, it is, we are, as if self-contained.

I grasp for meaning.

I stretch out my hand.

I feel your presence.

I am connected.

I am one of yours, my friends.

Your company keeps me safe.

Fear not.

Farewell

Rejoice.

For my friends

Space to think...

Space to think, vital space, head space.

This is it, they can't damn this flow. The English course, an Indian summer, there we were, sitting on the grass, the concrete walls of the institution, vaguely irrelevant. It was impossible to feel anything other than free. The students were standing, others walking, some lounging, chatting, reflecting on their personal projects.

I am sitting on a sofa at home, drinking coffee, writing this. Is this my work? Not sure what it is, but it appears necessary.

Nursery
Yesterday I went to pick up my daughter at the creche. I looked around at the play space. Lovely bright colours, hand painting on the walls, boxes full of toys, little kids moving freely, busily building their real, imaginary worlds.

Primary
I rushed off this evening to the parent teacher meeting at my son's school. I sat facing uncomfortably front at an adult designed child-sized desk. I gazed anxiously at the lists of homework, the shelved exercise books and the high set windows.  Outside, the kids were kneeling on the playground tarmac, playing with their Bayblades.

Boarding
I got my finger stuck in a metallic chair once. The more that I struggled, the more that it swelled up and made its release unlikely. It was in a German class with the man who would successfully convince me that German was not for me. I remember nothing more about his class.

With a lot of tugging, a sizeable pat of butter and no little pain, I was freed. From that day on, I was the undesirable element.

One afternoon, to my considerable pleasure, he excluded me from his class.  I went off to my study and ate toast. Perhaps the best piece of toast I ever remember eating.

Dormitory, library, lavatory.
Sleeping in a room with thirteen co-detainees left little space for privacy. Showering was communal, baths shared, adolescent angst barely hid. Escape was a common subject of discussion at my school. Tales were told of the three boys who managed to get as far as Preston. We only got as far as Blackpool ice-rink. We bribed the monitors.  I didn't like ice-skating, I couldn't care less.

Peace, on week days, was a lavatory cubicle.  Sundays,  I squatted a corner of the library behind the magazine rack. In times of stress, I continue to find comfort in plastic bound glossies and anonymous silence.

Four walls and a door
Let's just close the door, so nobody can hear what I have to say.

Why do we insist on sitting people down on chairs to learn? How much do other people's spaces condition our behaviour? Would we want other people to choose our furniture for us?  Why do prisons and some schools have high-set windows? What has learning got to do with facing front? Aren't we missing something if we only look in one direction? What is it about libraries and comfort? Should the bell at the end of the school day be a release?

Banksy mural 
Photo  Certains droits réservés par walker cleavelands