6th September

Oh, if only I were a magician of the written word, conjuring little gems from the air around me. Instead I am more a Kafka of the taxi cab. An eroticist of disappointment who sees a crack in everything. I am a half-open door onto a room shuttered and dark. I exist in a world where we can’t afford to feed the poor, but will always find money for another war –

What a horrible child I was, too! Aged twelve or thirteen at school our classroom was in a makeshift building called “The Annex”. The room had a lot of windows with views of the playground. We could watch the girls in their short skirts and navy-blue knickers playing netball on Tuesday afternoons. An invigorating experience for recently pubescent young males.

The teacher’s desk at the head of the class was lacking a front board. The female teacher’s who came to take our class had no idea. In summer they tended to sit, legs yawning, most unladylike. From where I sat beside my deskmate Alex we had a totally unrestricted view up their skirts. Consequently, we both became connoisseurs of the silken gusset, and discovered poetry and masturbation together.

Oh, what beastly creatures we were –

#

The moor rinsed by a fitful sun on occasion. Rain has fallen for days and days. It has washed away the spiders webs outside the windows, and drowned the tentative flowers beside the footpaths. So much rain. If only it could wash away our sins…?

Down by the standing stones in a miserable drizzle. I hear in my head the sea’s mighty BOOM resounding in that massive blowhole on the headland at Trevone –

If we move away I am going to miss this place. Its ghosts and its echoes.

The parts that are absent

August 16, 2017

16th August

Last night was spent between rain and not rain. Counting stars glimpsed between black cloud banks and listening to the owls hunt and the tragic screams of their victims. I closed my ears to the butchery and employed word magic –

Mood this morning: conflicted. The voices in my head are bickering, and one of my personalities has wandered off to God alone knows where! I’m bereft.

Fact to always keep to the front of my mind: multitasking is the ability to mess up a number of things in one go. Men should never attempt it. Don’t believe me? Okay, try brushing your teeth while taking a pee, boys, but keep a floor cloth handy.

Too much time spent sinking into the event horizon of a computer screen. The morning sky is too feckin’ bright. Too much sick-looking sun behind all that watery gloom. Drink more coffee. The caffeine whirls about the blood like a madman on steroids. I really could use a drop of brandy just now.

Almost

August 5, 2017

The rain is almost
falling
like snow.

Some three a.m. car passes.

The corner utility pole
holds a cone of light
to its mouth

and is screaming
at the pavement.

We are almost here
suffering,
almost drifting through

the world without purpose

as the rain vanishes
in the darkness
beyond.

Carl Adamschick

Share the rain

July 8, 2017

6th June 6

Last night’s raging gales and watery darkness, collapsed this morning into wind-muscled day. High skies with racing clouds like huge white fortresses above the flowered lanes and tall church-tower…

Reasons to be cheerful part thirty-two: In omnibus requiem quaesivi, et nusquam inveni nisi in angulo cum libro (I’ve sought tranquility in everything, but found it nowhere except in a corner with a book).

Hold a hand up to your cheek, feel the slanting rain on your skin, soaking your hair, while you, drowning, floundering like a big black bird, scream ‘Feck, feck, feck it’ at the uncaring elements.

Such is life in the wilds.

Aware of time passing. Each new day is a day nearer death. This house over time will faded, its windows take on a new clarity, the glass imprinted on the very air. The stairs will become shadows. Perhaps as a ghost I’ll return, pass through a door that is no longer there?

Ghosts in my soul

May 14, 2017

14th May

Long days, followed by candle lit evenings and laughter. Rain slanting at the windows last night, followed by a misty moist morning full of ghosts. Sometimes just to sit and watch the rain brings a strange sense of calm to me. Thunder and lightning, on the other hand, sets a fire in my soul…

#

Last summer, walking the coastal path south from Portreath. Took the narrow path down to the sea, all elbow turns and screaming gulls. Deadman’s Cove below. Cold here, despite the intense heat of the day. The beach is all pebbles and black rocks. At low tide the wreck of a ship sunk back in 1978 becomes partially visible.

Here the sea is still and black, brooding under rocky shadows; no surfing or swimming – too cold and dark and dangerous. The Cove is a haunted place. A ghost regularly appears before visitors, only to fade away when directly addressed. Or so they say.

One of the most perilous stretches of coast imaginable. Many ships sunk over the years, the bodies inevitably washing up in Deadman’s Cove. Uneasy atmosphere to the place, giving an intense and inexplicable sense of foreboding to many of the coves visitors…

Ghostly screams of drowning men frequently heard here in the night…

#

Strange things do happen. In August 1894 some parts of Bath were covered by thousands of small Jelly fish that fell from the sky!

Diary 7th / 8th March

Such irregular days filled with tempestuous winds. Hear it whistling in the chimney, day and night. Gusting. Carrying the dead, desiccated heads of last year’s geraniums over the lawn. Dustbin lids rattle and crash. And rubbish is scattered. It roars like an express train overhead as it flaps through the hills from the coast…

And the rain – torrential at times! Threatening a veritable Noah’s flood. We should be building an ark, gathering animals two by two. Then, afloat after 150 days, the waters will recede and we’ll find ourselves together on Ararat.

Truly, we are experiencing weather of biblical proportions!

Oh, summer when will you return…?

#

Then: Paris, at age seventeen: a necropolis of a city; a place of the dead, stinking of traffic fumes, freshly baked bread, and smouldering Gauloises cigarettes. A city imbued with odd shadows and strange intrusions of darkness that confused and misled the unwary. It tasted of pernod and water and Bouillabaisse and bitter black coffee.

The women, you’ll recall, tasted of salt and sweat, acrid beneath a casual dab of perfume – that perfume always gardenia on the tarts: perhaps sex workers clubbed together and purchased in bulk for a discount…?

But the whores like the city were all about pretend. Smelling of gardenia around the tits, but of Roquefort between the legs.

It was a city of rising and falling, of bright lights and darkness. The easy voluptuous rhythm of sex, and the staccato barking of car horns. French men drove with their hands on their horns, whispering their our Fathers and their hail Marys until journeys end. Jazz clubs at night, then a trip to one of the many ethnic joints for couscous “à la française”.

And writing, writing, writing until your hands cramped and you were good for nothing – not even a quick wank!

Paris, a place of occult phenomena, of conflicting absurdities. A city filled with monstrous revenants, a catastrophe…but what the hell, the Metro was cheap as chips!

In a world smitten with insanity we still have Paris and its Metro! I felt like Orpheus underground in search of my true Eurydice on the glorious Paris Metro.

Remember? Wandering the museums and galleries, day in day out, like one in a narcotic daze. Parallel worlds could be accessed there. You could easily become lost. I believe you did become lost…?

And, oh, how that place could wound. That awful city, headlong full of the undead. Everything was an exaggeration. Already lonely, it painted your imagination with its horrors, its monstrousness, filling your soul with such darkness that you wished everything to end –

But then, come the morning, your ordeal, your self-imposed exile would begin over. Balance returned, however temporarily. You’d go out into the city armed with fresh hope. Experience again the desire to grow and to touch the moon from this terrible place…

Even Crows can Sing

November 23, 2016

breakfast-gin

Diary 23rd November

Pass me the breakfast gin…

#

Ah, but to spot genuine relevance in this wide Sargasso Sea of possibilities. Can it be done, I ask? Surely the ravings of a blog-troll have no pertinence?

But then again…

Decisions made on a whim, an impulse grown from a passion for spontaneity, are not necessarily flawed or the “wrong” decisions to have been made. It is not as if I’ve suggested marriage to a moonbeam, or taking up residence with the Rooks in the churchyard trees, or playing a banjo in the garden past midnight. No, none of these. And yet while all the possibilities hold some attraction for me, I continue to write silences on the fragile skin of the night.

For myself, yes, but also for you.

Nothing more.

I am I. The truth of my own self. I dedicate myself to my art and my unique madness. I am my own Phoenix, and on slow burn…

So sing your rapturous love-song unto me!
Burn to me perfumes!
Wear to me jewels!
Drink to me, for I love you! I love you! I love you!

(with an apology to Aleister Crawley and his verse from Liber AL vel Legis; and to Nino who always says ‘I luvs you, I luvs you, I luvs you’ whenever he sees Dee)

#

This rain! So much feckin’ rain! Even the owls have fallen silent during the night…Waterlogged most likely.

#

A solitary sound while you were sleeping neatly dived the night into these two pure silences.

#

Well the year pulls on – rain and more rain, and mornings of white thick mist. Soon be Christmas, of course. This year we’ll be away, and I’m looking forward to that.

#

Because my blood is louder than light, I misheard your voice. But it doesn’t matter. Not really. My dreamy-head turned your words from words into pure music – a distortion not accomplished without effort, believe me. But that music floats in a circle above us now, as if crafted from the moonlight.

another cigarette

Diary 13th June

I’m feeling ruffled. My soul needs ironing. Have you ever had one of those mood where you just want to tell everyone who comes near – GO AWAY!

Well, that’s the sort of miserable bugger I am this morning. I should have had a couple more brandies last night. Take the rough edges of this crazy old world; make me feel more human…

Okay. So nothing for it now, but for me to go over to the coast and stand on the tallest cliff I can find and scream at the feckin’ ocean for an hour or so! That usually works for me…

#

Ah, what’s more incredible than the spectral glow of the moon glimpsed above fast scudding clouds? Or the sweet music of the wind in the trees, or the ancient life within those same trees?

And the rain…We’ve had three days of rain: fine, miserable, soaking drizzle.

birds and trees

Diary 21st May

‘You can’t have everything,’ I said.

‘Why not?’ she asked.

‘Darling, where would you put it all…?’

#

People tend to drain me. There are times I feel I’m in the midst of a huge masquerade ball where, come midnight, the guests unmask and I find myself surrounded by vampires of the most disreputable sort.

This bal masqué will, of course, be the death of me…

#

Rain yesterday and this morning. Rain on the slates shines sometimes in the smoky light. You know, I feel the future is to be found in the gull infested landfill sites near the coast. The gulls sense it and dig deep in the heaped detritus to find it. Simultaneously, starlings in great shoals abandon the present for the past. They are wiser, perhaps, than the gulls. We? We’ll fade gradually, ungracefully in a wreath of feathers and human hair…

#

This morning I’m too lazy to masturbate. So I inveigled my way into Gabriella’s good books, and she obliged with a sleepy, teasing handjob that resulted, fifty minutes later, in a nasty, nasty mess on my chest and belly.

#

In the sitting room the chairs are quite still. After all they have nothing else to do. The books on the shelves are silent, exhausted perhaps after a night of whispering to each other. They rest in such impressive dishevelment, gathering dust and providing shelter to the occasional small spider, embarrassed by its nakedness and wishing to hide its shame from others.

Ah, if only we could dream on beams of silk…?

And still it’s feckin’ raining.

#

So many wild flowers blooming in the hedgerows. They’re awash with rain, dripping wet, on either side of the puddled lane. Even the gorse is in flower…

#

Out tonight, restaurant and drinks, with friends. Italian food and good conversation…None of us, I suspect, will be particularly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow.