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.

cum again

Diary 22nd April

Once, many moons ago, young Peedeel had a girlfriend called Sally Anne C. She was a tall girl with mousey, shoulder-length hair and pale blue eyes. Anyway, she invited Peedeel to her home one Saturday afternoon, and their heavy petting became serious lovemaking on her narrow bed.

Memory can so easily deceive. It spools itself out like a film. Any gaps can be filled from imagination, a completely subliminal action that we remain unaware of. Even so that first time with Sally Anne was very special. Her long, slender body, half-undressed; her mouth ripe, wet, strange. Images…Memories. Peedeel experienced familiar faint resistance and then he was in, hard, grinding. And, Oh God, she was soooo very tight! Wet and tight. What she had was like a second mouth greedily sucking on him as they took each other to bits.

Now Sally Anne had this boxer dog called Patch, and he was in the bedroom curled up beside the wardrobe. Damp grey sky in the window as Sally Anne lurched. Her hands become fists in the sheets and she involuntarily yelped, well beyond the point of no return.

Peedeel thrusting and grinding, tried to focus his thoughts away from her demanding tightness. He thought about walking in the rain and the strange perfume of the chestnut trees in the park. He thought about anything that would delay his own, inevitable climax…but then, as Sally Anne yelped out her passion and he held her trembling body in his hands, Patch leapt onto the bed and buried his teeth in Peedeel’s bare rump…

Of course, afterwards, Sally Anne laughed. ‘He must’ve thought you were hurting me,’ she explained, in between hearty chuckles. Poor Peedeel. His fire had burnt out in the grate. Having suitably disinfected the wound on his left arse cheek, he tried to apply elastoplasts’.

‘More like he was jealous,’ he said. And oh! what an heroic figure he must have cut – an empty condom now hanging from his shriveled penis. Realising this, he tore it off and threw it in the rubbish bin. ‘It feckin hurts, I’ll tell you that. I should sue for compensation…’

More laughter from her. You win some you lose some. His petulance was mock…although he wished Patch into the ninth circle of hell. And his frustration was like an over-ripe ache in the belly…

#

Walking alone in the rain the other day, the smell of wild flowers reminded me of you. Then I recalled another, earlier time, you with your white tee plastered to your breasts by the warm drizzle…And then that time in Trebarwith, me in a borrowed cagoule on the rocks in the pissing rain and the sea crashing up towards the causeway. Remember that? We were two lovers locked in to each other and lost in the baffling inconsequentiality of the rain.

#

Seen around:

“The sale of all diesel and petrol cars could be banned by 2025 in the Netherlands if a proposed law to make all new cars electric passes. The new law wouldn’t ban the use of existing petrol and diesel cars but all new car models would have to be emissions-free.

“The majority of the lower house in the Dutch parliament supported the motion, which would also see the ban of fuel-efficient hybrid car models. While it’s still unclear whether the proposal will pass and become law, the ambitious plan would involve car manufacturers getting on board to produce enough electric vehicles to meet demand.

“The latest electric cars have shorter charging times and longer ranges, benefits that emission-free car evangelists hope will help make them appeal to users of traditional petrol and diesel cars. Sales of electric cars are slowly increasing, while Tesla’s recently announced ‘affordable’ Model 3 has received a record number of pre-orders.”

Interesting. As an eight year old kid in Holland, the one thing I most remember is the number of pushbikes in use in the city. Hundreds of them…

Rain

March 25, 2016

reflections

The rain hasn’t let up all day. It’s weather
more typical of the Westem Isles
than this town in England where I live.
We read in the paper today of bombs in London
and an innocent foreigner shot dead by the police,
but the rain brings to mind an old man of Skye
who stood before a commission in Isle ornsay
some time in the eighteen eighties
and bore witness at last to his rotten century.

‘They were carried away in spite of themselves.
If alone, a woman might be taken off the field
where she was weeding the crop,
or a man off the shore where he was fishing
or even snatched sleeping in bed.
I t was a mystery where they went.
Years passed before any of them came back,
from the Carolinas, mostly. They’d changed,
so changed that no one knew who they were,
enslaved as they’d been, and aged.
Then, when all was revealed,
judge what we thought of ourselves,
left behind as we were, and useless!
This was within my father’s lifetime,’
said the old man, glad the commissioners were listening.

Vicious, those events. Vicious, the indignation
with which we look back, since we can only wonder
about the suffering and the lives they led.
Vicious our own not very different century,
the past still present as the past to us,
the present present as an appalling past to come.

Mairi MacInnes

(Mairi MacInnes has been writing since the 1940s and her many publications include Elsewhere & Back: New and Selected Poems (Bloodaxe), The Pebble (University Of Illinois Press) and Clearances: A Memoir (Pantheon, New York). The Girl I Left Behind Me, her last collection, is published by Stone Trough Books)

white noise everywhere

January 3, 2016

walkingintherain

On the fifth day, which was a Sunday, it rained very hard. I like it when it rains hard. It sounds like white noise everywhere, which is like silence but not empty.

Mark Haddon
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time

Rainy Sunday Morning

January 3, 2016

rainy-sunday2Sundaymug

Rain

September 11, 2015

rainonwindow

The rain hasn’t let up all day. It’s weather
more typical of the Westem Isles
than this town in England where I live.
We read in the paper today of bombs in London
and an innocent foreigner shot dead by the police,
but the rain brings to mind an old man of Skye
who stood before a commission in Isleornsay
some time in the eighteen eighties
and bore witness at last to his rotten century.

‘They were carried away in spite of themselves.
If alone, a woman might be taken off the field
where she was weeding the crop,
or a man off the shore where he was fishing
or even snatched sleeping in bed.
I t was a mystery where they went.
Years passed before any of them came back,
from the Carolinas, mostly. They’d changed,
so changed that no one knew who they were,
enslaved as they’d been, and aged.
Then, when all was revealed,
judge what we thought of ourselves,
left behind as we were, and useless!
This was within my father’s lifetime,’
said the old man, glad the commissioners were listening.

Vicious, those events. Vicious, the indignation
with which we look back, since we can only wonder
about the suffering and the lives they led.
Vicious our own not very different century,
the past still present as the past to us,
the present present as an appalling past to come.

Mairi MacInnes

(Mairi MacInnes was born in Co. Durham. Educated in Yorkshire and at Somerville College, Oxford, she married the American scholar and writer John McCormick and went to live with him in West Berlin, and from 1959 to 1988 in America, except for years in Mexico and Spain. Now widowed she lives in Yorkshire, England. Her published collections include: Elsewhere and Back: New & Selected Poems, and The Girl I Left Behind Me: Poems of a Lifetime. Her website may be found HERE)

Welcome, one & all…

August 23, 2015

sundaywetmorning

Yeah, it’s pissing down raining heavily. So nothing much to do, except make love. It’s a hard life…