Saturday, January 24, 2009

everybody loves the sound of a train in the distance

A complex arrangement of argument presents itself, a gaseous form, almost aura in style. The tensions which have always existed floating and bubbling to the surface, and out, splashing the sides, and to overflow...In my hand, a heart, rotting as would an apple in a cupboard, its valves stretched, damaged and dirtied, a battered boxer's fist. Assuming the damage was carried out for the purposes of self-harm (so to speak) the witness is unrelenting in their fierce critisicm...

But, later, there is no gaseous argument or fiery argument. It is as though I am staring at a distant light through a frosted window, the glass of which is etched with a design of lines and curves as would be seen from a child's drawing of trees: expressionless forms and faces appear in the accidental symmetry. From the circle of light, beyond the etched trees, a wonder of clarity. For the mind is struggling, with some determination, to find fault with the current situation; the struggle is visible in the fidgeted, forensic analysis of precisely no evidence. With impeccible timing, the radio plays "All men have secrets, and here is mine..."

Through the skittish drizzle of morning, that sensation of contentment, frozen with the stunned bewilderment which attaches itself to moments of Serendipity. The railway station is almost empty, but for the determined people-watcher, there will always be something to notice. She with her face framed by fake fur, an expression of boredom tinged with anticipation, or maybe concern, an undertone of regret. She actually clasps her handbag, as women are seen doing in photographs from the past, her hands are clasping, which says more than her eyes, which she hides.

The natural reaction to silence, and absence, is concern and anxiety. Which is the new word of the times. Anxious, like awkward, are words whose spelling suit their definition. Hearts which are their own definition. From the newest morning another stride through a forest, and its hidden lights, scratched leaves, and unmarked trails; the soil under which will be where I bury the damaged, rotten heart in my hands.