tell me of night

October 10, 2017

In the evening, when everything is tired and quiet, I sit with Walt Whitman by the rose beds and listen to what that lonely and beautiful spirit has to tell me of night, sleep, death, and the stars. This dusky, silent hour is his; and this is the time when I can best hear the beatings of that most tender and generous heart.

Elizabeth von Arnim
The Solitary Summer

She lay on his shoulder in this ugly room, folded up with almost imperceptible breathing like seagulls settled on the water cock over gentle waves. Looking at her head and body, richer far than her rare fur coat, holding as he did to these skins which enfolded what ruled him, her arms and shoulders, everything, looking down on her face which ever since he had first seen it had been his library, his gallery, his palace, and his wooded fields he began at last to feel content and almost that he owned her.

Lying in his arms, her long eyelashes down along her cheeks, her hair tumbled and waved, her hands drifted to rest like white doves drowned on peat water, he marvelled again he should ever dream of leaving her who seemed to him then his reason for living as he made himself breathe with her breathing as he always did when she was in his arms to try and be more with her.

It was so luxurious he nodded, perhaps it was also what she put on her hair, very likely it may have been her sleep reaching out over him, but anyway he felt so right he slipped into it too and dropped off on those outspread wings into her sleep with his, like two soft evenings meeting.

Henry Green
Party Going

The Big Question

July 9, 2017

Without stick or sword

January 15, 2017

rose-freymuth-frazier-hounded

Diary 15th January

Returned yesterday from a small soirée at Goodrington Sands. It is a dog owners paradise, and most of the population seemed to be engaged in walking their dogs along the beach or promenade.

We arrived there Friday lunchtime and had a boozy lunch followed by a long walk along the beach. The wind was bitterly cold.

S, almost in tears, fears her cat may die soon; it has been very ill, and she has spent a small fortune on vets bills – but, despite every test known to man, the vets are unable to determine exactly what is wrong with the animal. They are perplexed.

S is also concerned her father will not see out this year. Hopefully she is wrong on both counts!

More booze follows.

Twilight then night, with its brood of phantoms that walk the world as sentient things. Muttered “Hullo’s”. Glimpses of the strange, profound and baffling. Circling faces and disembodied voices.

A woman, mid-fifties(?), fleshy and flashy, tells me she has a complete school uniform at home: gym-slip, white socks and big sensible navy-blue knickers. ‘You should come see me in it,’ she says. ‘A weekday’s best for me. I even have a satchel containing crayons and drawing pad.’ She passes me a slip of paper on which is written a phone number and address. ‘I play an adorable little virgin, so innocent – you can corrupt and debauch me in whatever way you desire!’

Time passing. Grotesqueries of light and shadow. The people here are all affluent, bored, over-sexed – almost parodies of themselves. Women with strange secrets in their drowsy eyes. Men, faces flushed with lust, join in the never ending dance.

A woman’s face above me: shadowy eyes, a bright red mouth, and nostrils like dark wells. There are wrinkles at the edges of her mouth and her tongue seems huge inside my mouth. Her cheeks flush scarlet and her eyes glow like little lanterns when her climax engulfs her.

A man’s whispering, Mephistophelian voice at my ear. He offers his wife, a plump forty-something, who spreads her legs to my passionless gaze. He tells me in explicit, vivid detail what he would like to see me do to her.

I comply with each of his shocking instructions.

When she cums it is like a cataclysm.

And then, in another room, another much younger woman. Incredibly vivid. Incredibly flexible. Intense and demanding in each of her movements. The surging of blood to her face, lost in pure physical sensation, and the tingling of nerve endings. The quickening of her breath and spastic motion of hip and thigh…

Finally to bed like an impotent old giant.

Unfortunately, I sleep badly. Doze and wake disoriented in my strange surroundings. Dee snoring gently beside me.

As if to reinforce the surreal experiences of the preceding evening, I watch the breakfast news on BBC. A doctor in an A&E department explains to the camera that he has no beds available. No trolleys left, either. Ambulances are backed up on the A&E ramp outside. The patients cannot be removed from the ambulances, there is nowhere to put them. Consequently, the ambulances are unable to respond to any further calls for assistance.

It’s a mess!

A crises!

Then, amazingly, the Queen of Brobdingnag, Terresa Maybe appears on screen in a different report. The problems, she explains, the NHS is currently experiencing is due in part to GPs not working evenings or weekends!

Luggnagg meets Brobdingnag.

I think I shall relocate to the land of the Houyhnhnms. It’s feckin’ safer.

After breakfast we say our goodbyes to S and her man. Drive then into Brixham. Dee wants to see the place again, a nostalgia trip. She’d last visited in her teens with AN, a girls only camping holiday…very Sapphic, I’m sure (only kidding girls).

Dee tells of the transvestite artist they met there beside the harbour. An older guy. Diabetic, with an ulcerated leg. He invited them both back to his ‘artist’s garret’ to show them his collection of clothes. He asked the girls to try them on, which they did. He sketched away like mad as they shamelessly stripped and dressed in his offered finery. An intimate, almost immemorially pagan scene.

Then he asked AN if he could try on the top she’d been wearing. She agreed, but the top was far too small and his attempts ended in seem-stretching failure.

He explained his leg was ‘killing’ him and had to sit down. AN, very kindly, changed the dressing on his leg for him…

Dee and I sat outside a café in bright sunshine. The weather was totally different from yesterday’s. We’d left Cornwall in snow flurries. And now, sitting looking out across the harbour, I could feel the sun burning my face!

Incredible!

Dee said, ‘What a glorious sunshiny day! We’ve been so lucky.’

Finally, we drove home. I felt very second-hand to be honest. Slightly hungover and jaded. Cooking a meal last night for Dee and L, I was really running on empty. I managed a glass of wine, for myself, followed by a large brandy, but no food. I went to bed at eight-thirty and fell immediately fast asleep.

Uneasy dreams followed. They always do. Gigantic shadows of men and women entwining. Faces glowing scarlet-red with excitement. Ephemeral rooms, scattered with cushions. Laughter, gently mocking. Becoming harsher –

Then waking, thankfully, to this sombre dawn.

A new day begins –

candleonhand

Diary 12th May

‘As the mottled wings of a butterfly are invisible against the ground, so the devil merges with the print in an opened newspaper…’

So scrape off the fetid yellow scum of sleep, and leap refreshed into this world. We call it the real world, but I see it more as a requiem for the dead night just buried; a soft lamentation for fading dreams – bizarre and fitful dreams.

The glimpse of a woman’s face – a sort of scratchy-print effect, more than a living breathing individual – at the top of a flight of narrow stone steps.

Where is this?

No idea. Somewhere deep inside my own head?

Who is she?

Again, I’ve no idea. Nor do I know what those other things are, those vague moving shadows caught in the blurring of focus at the periphery of my vision.

It’s night. No moon or stars overhead. A distant globe of light to my right illuminates a section of riverbank. The steps ahead of me are worn, wet, mossy. I begin the slow ascent…

And the woman, inexplicably, is swallowed whole by the night. One minute there, the next not. A will o’ the wisp that leaves me doubting my own senses.

And then I’m in an attic room, a parody of the rooms in Barbès…the sloping ceiling and the narrow arched windows. An old man stands at his easel, pallet knife in hand. Though obviously blind, he works the canvass before him with practiced ease, applying the oil paint in thick, rich layers of colour. It is soon obvious to me that he is mining his subconscious to produce this work of primal emotion…He is ‘seeing’ through his pallet knife.

On the canvass a nude – possibly the woman I observed at the top of the flight of steps. Around and beyond her an odd juxtaposition of disparate objects: a safe, an umbrella, a wall flower and a key. In one corner, on the unswept floorboards, a mouse.

This blind old man is playing with the irrational, chaotic, unknowable and otherworldly. He is painting my dreams, or my life; trying to capture the essence of my soul on his canvass. In thick layers of bright paint he is creating visions of half-sleep, of lovemaking. The woman’s smile of fire is too vivid to gaze on for long…

And then a violin begins to play…

#

The sky is streaked red this morning. Time for my breakfast gin. I think I’ll make some churros and thick chocolate, too. Yes, start the day right. A wonderful plate of healthy options calentitos de rueda!

I find the dark and dullness strangely soporific – never mind, I’m sure this movie will be just as good…if not better!!

Alien_tampon

Is this you?

Is this you?

Sleep…

May 20, 2015

sleep

Dreams…

April 6, 2015

Pixiedustbook

I find out a lot about myself by sleeping. Dreams, they are who I am when I’m too tired to be me.

Jarod Kintz
This Book is Not for Sale

Naps…

April 1, 2015

naps