Against the Day

The October light, still with a hint of summer somewhere at its back, a warmth in the details. As time passes, as you grow older, certain days and hours are picked out, like a word in a book that is underlined. The brilliance of the light falls on the sloping school yard, on rusting leaves, reflects off high windows; each person  becomes more distinct and yet less sure of themselves. Someone fumbles with a book in their pocket on the train. Two women, who are really men, sit sadly next to one another, against the world.

Q tells me the story of how Ghazali was once robbed. He pleads with the robbers not to take his books-his prize possession. But they do, and they tell him: you shouldn't value something so much that it's loss causes you such distress. After that Ghazali learns all his work off by heart, as if he could stave off the dissolution, protect himself from the randomness of life, by simply memorizing what he knew.

In a seven minute walk you come across three galleries in the swanky part of town: Rothko and some Japanese photographer (their work horribly juxtaposed); Auerbach whose beautiful brush? strokes reveal an underlying structure of a human personality (really must get R. Hughes's monograph); and Luc Tuymans, whose 'grey paintings' are something you've always wanted to see.

The flowers still stirring in their frozen dream, the sun's light gently touching their outer being. The frost creeping up on the conservatory window, a thin veil of intricate patterns webbed on the glass, refracting the light, making it dense, slow, profound. You notice the seasons more as more are stored up. The great tree hunches its shoulders like an old homeless man, preparing for a harsh winter. The accumulation of memories in its grain, against the grain...

The days are numbered. Six or seven. Time passes like a series of blank pages, until once again a word emerges, and that word was your name.   

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