Every room is full of heat and light by 8 o'clock; the heat is packed in tightly, like boxes placed on top of one another, with the slightest variations in temperature as you move up them, like a worn-out scale; outside, the heat and light surrounds you and the shade is whittled down to a bare minimum. You say 'outside' but in truth the distinction becomes less relevant at this level. Glass or gauze netting are one in their functional relation to the sun. Two crows stand at a distance from one another on a top ledge, slightly out of breath, not looking at eachother. The distance makes you wonder if they're married.
On the ground, the bark of trees has peeled off and lies there like large pencil shavings, thin, curled and flaking. The grass is growing at an alarming rate now that it's untended. You see weeds and other hardy characters re-emerging. In other places the grass has browned or turned to a straw-like stubble..soon to be dust.
One room only retains the briefest, faintest glimpse of early morning (as if the movement of the sun's light in the apartment aims to eradicate distinctions). Here there is still a whisper of a breeze, still the sound of birds chirping outside-and there is an outside, an "up" and a "down". The books, in the meantime, continue to collect dust, yawn and slip back into their drowsy slumber. Every eye but mine is asleep.
~~
The night before you walked into the swanky bookstore where they were unpacking books from lovely cardboard boxes; the sense of moving in, making arrangements, making sense of the world, despite all the haphazardness without (and a fair bit 'within'). Some jazz playing in the background (Ella); the owner, from ol' blighty, working there herself, hair pinned up, in slacks. You let a word out, let your voice return to a former inclination, as if to say: recognition rests on the simple fact of this specific tone of your voice or in the way a letter is displaced, forgotten. Reason not the need.
[You picked up Berger's latest book and from Readings, earlier, some P. Fitzgerald and Rilke (transl. Stephen Mitchell (though you like the Cohen one better))]
Once, while lecturing to some senior students at Birkbeck, two middle-aged women, identically dressed, spoke to you in the break. Don't think they were interested in the subject at all-and who could blame them! But they did ask: are you from Wales?
Well, how on earth did they know? Because the way you rolled out a word...
Where are you from, originally, you thought to yourself, echoing Carol Ann Duffy's question. Once you would say bus like a Geordie but that sound/time now lies buried deep somewhere. Too many stray thoughts ends up being reflected in your posture, your quizzical, bemused face...
Outside a man walks past you in a day-dream (there are many such people in this city, people wandering aimlessly). In his hand are two small bottles (of scented oil). He clinks them against eachother as he walks, looking for customers. In the old days people would be recognized by such signs. Still are, to an extent. At Bhatta Chowk a number of dejected workers sit at the roadside holding up paint cans or a plank of wood to indicate their profession (reminds you of a scene from Hardy's Far From the Madding Crowd). People pass by and will hire them or move on. day-labourers like this are usually paid 400 Rs a day. If you go to a posh part of the town you can pay that much for a coffee.
~~
It is not right to speak ill of the dead so you won't say anything about Nash and the so-called 'beautiful mind'.
On the ground, the bark of trees has peeled off and lies there like large pencil shavings, thin, curled and flaking. The grass is growing at an alarming rate now that it's untended. You see weeds and other hardy characters re-emerging. In other places the grass has browned or turned to a straw-like stubble..soon to be dust.
One room only retains the briefest, faintest glimpse of early morning (as if the movement of the sun's light in the apartment aims to eradicate distinctions). Here there is still a whisper of a breeze, still the sound of birds chirping outside-and there is an outside, an "up" and a "down". The books, in the meantime, continue to collect dust, yawn and slip back into their drowsy slumber. Every eye but mine is asleep.
~~
The night before you walked into the swanky bookstore where they were unpacking books from lovely cardboard boxes; the sense of moving in, making arrangements, making sense of the world, despite all the haphazardness without (and a fair bit 'within'). Some jazz playing in the background (Ella); the owner, from ol' blighty, working there herself, hair pinned up, in slacks. You let a word out, let your voice return to a former inclination, as if to say: recognition rests on the simple fact of this specific tone of your voice or in the way a letter is displaced, forgotten. Reason not the need.
[You picked up Berger's latest book and from Readings, earlier, some P. Fitzgerald and Rilke (transl. Stephen Mitchell (though you like the Cohen one better))]
Once, while lecturing to some senior students at Birkbeck, two middle-aged women, identically dressed, spoke to you in the break. Don't think they were interested in the subject at all-and who could blame them! But they did ask: are you from Wales?
Well, how on earth did they know? Because the way you rolled out a word...
Where are you from, originally, you thought to yourself, echoing Carol Ann Duffy's question. Once you would say bus like a Geordie but that sound/time now lies buried deep somewhere. Too many stray thoughts ends up being reflected in your posture, your quizzical, bemused face...
Outside a man walks past you in a day-dream (there are many such people in this city, people wandering aimlessly). In his hand are two small bottles (of scented oil). He clinks them against eachother as he walks, looking for customers. In the old days people would be recognized by such signs. Still are, to an extent. At Bhatta Chowk a number of dejected workers sit at the roadside holding up paint cans or a plank of wood to indicate their profession (reminds you of a scene from Hardy's Far From the Madding Crowd). People pass by and will hire them or move on. day-labourers like this are usually paid 400 Rs a day. If you go to a posh part of the town you can pay that much for a coffee.
~~
It is not right to speak ill of the dead so you won't say anything about Nash and the so-called 'beautiful mind'.
No comments:
Post a Comment