Do you think, D, that life was somehow a dream..or maybe it was just our lives? It's as if we just floated through life or maybe it was the other way around: everything in the world passed before our eyes in a fleeting moment. I can't get a hold on things. I don't even reach out any more, not sure of the point. Everything can be contained in one room, or maybe even in a suitcase.
D: There's some anthropological theory, isn't there, about how we could understand a person's life by just looking at a complete record of their transactions?
But isn't that in part the problem? That it's always been ideas, as if they were just another one of those transactions? What about what we gave and took from life?
D: Life?! Dear child, what are you talking about. We died a long time ago, don't you know?
The Ghosts of Motley Hall? Gosh, we're in a charming mood this morning!
D: Dunno about you, kid, but I am. Do you know any tunes?
I know the first four notes of 'Once in Royal David's City' and can play them on that cracked piano.
D: Then play them in the centre, those keys still work.
~
Betty, do you believe that apart from you, somewhere beyond all the people who only seem to be people, there truly are still some people left, real people?'
--Derek Raymond.
~
You really wanted to like Danilo Kis but three stories in you're still undecided. Certainly some lovely passages but what holds you back is the feeling that there's a fierce intelligence at work there, that an idea can take over and swamp the story telling. No, maybe it's not that. Perhaps there's the uncomfortable thought that lurking just below the surface of the stories is politics (not quite a political agenda but..). That all sounds a bit harsh, I know, but...
~
That night I dreamt I was back in an old part of the town, in the old country. You stopped at what you thought was the public library, but it really resembled a city train station with kiosks, stone walls and lots of people in grey hats and long coats walking past it. there you are, in the shade, the sweltering heat, windows flung open..and you always walk up the wrong flight of stairs. In the offices above the station/library was the loud-mouthed girl from your class, from the school on the hill, all grown up and it was truly amazing to see her. "Where have you been?"
I couldn't tell, after all these years. We return as strangers to our own homes.
~
Was there only ever one room after all? The red one of bewilderment, the white one in which all directions were possible? The dark one, with no lights, except from the passing cars. Your face pressed against the cold window, the tune from Dizzy's 'All these things you are' behind your back, as you wait for the return.
~
[Do you ever see your own face in a dream? Is it the true one? You dreamt of someone's fantastic legs the other day. Really must stop watching Paige].
D: There's some anthropological theory, isn't there, about how we could understand a person's life by just looking at a complete record of their transactions?
But isn't that in part the problem? That it's always been ideas, as if they were just another one of those transactions? What about what we gave and took from life?
D: Life?! Dear child, what are you talking about. We died a long time ago, don't you know?
The Ghosts of Motley Hall? Gosh, we're in a charming mood this morning!
D: Dunno about you, kid, but I am. Do you know any tunes?
I know the first four notes of 'Once in Royal David's City' and can play them on that cracked piano.
D: Then play them in the centre, those keys still work.
~
Betty, do you believe that apart from you, somewhere beyond all the people who only seem to be people, there truly are still some people left, real people?'
--Derek Raymond.
~
You really wanted to like Danilo Kis but three stories in you're still undecided. Certainly some lovely passages but what holds you back is the feeling that there's a fierce intelligence at work there, that an idea can take over and swamp the story telling. No, maybe it's not that. Perhaps there's the uncomfortable thought that lurking just below the surface of the stories is politics (not quite a political agenda but..). That all sounds a bit harsh, I know, but...
~
That night I dreamt I was back in an old part of the town, in the old country. You stopped at what you thought was the public library, but it really resembled a city train station with kiosks, stone walls and lots of people in grey hats and long coats walking past it. there you are, in the shade, the sweltering heat, windows flung open..and you always walk up the wrong flight of stairs. In the offices above the station/library was the loud-mouthed girl from your class, from the school on the hill, all grown up and it was truly amazing to see her. "Where have you been?"
I couldn't tell, after all these years. We return as strangers to our own homes.
~
Was there only ever one room after all? The red one of bewilderment, the white one in which all directions were possible? The dark one, with no lights, except from the passing cars. Your face pressed against the cold window, the tune from Dizzy's 'All these things you are' behind your back, as you wait for the return.
~
[Do you ever see your own face in a dream? Is it the true one? You dreamt of someone's fantastic legs the other day. Really must stop watching Paige].
No comments:
Post a Comment