Hanging In A Jar

This blog serves as a diary of sorts. It really probably only makes sense to me, but I'm glad I started it. I haven't achieved much of note but Graeme told me one day that this nonsense had inspired him to start a blog of his own . I'm so glad he did. Graeme was a great writer. He'd apparently tried to write a few books but kept losing interest. He said that he'd send them to me one day. "There is one about a man arriving to a surreal village, one about a man who is a pet to these ethereal aliens that he hasn't got the necessary senses to even comprehend, and one about someone who has lost his memory, set in an alternative London (with different tube stations and all very Soviet) but turns out to have been an important political dissident (that one was a bit confused..)." I don't think I'll ever see these stories now. Graeme died on Sunday. I don't really know why. I am angry at myself for taking him for granted. He really wanted to ha...

A rabbit's foot is good luck. A whole rabbit is even better luck, especially for the rabbit. Where are you now, little girls?  And where is your rabbit? I hope life treated you well.

The rain ended out there half an hour ago, but under these trees it still falls, paressing the full belly like melting dripping on a hot white roll. The sky is darkening. The only moons to be seen are the two blue that hang under eye; limpen forms tangled in a silken rope tied to a root in the furrow atop the brow. Over the ridge Vulcan circles the craters, gloaming about the magma spits. That was then. Now the sky is black. In the space in between we crossed heath and village green. Out West they danced macabre: a top hat of dead bird's wing, a goat's femured cane. Down South the beasts wrought revenge. Mr Badger's corpse lay in resplendent decay in Coldrum, his scrumpled monocle catching the last of the Kentish light, as the red faced farmer snuggled his piglets and served his betroughed for the Sunday roast. Oftentimes things can become confused; not least when you speak one language and the other, another.  Out West, West of my West, they speak in blue skies and ...

Is it a spaceship memory now? How the swinging door would clatter and the cats would run! The flags wore  blue, white, red, green and yellow and stripped to white bone for Sun, then evening reddled, and orchids grew come night. They mostly danced, but sometimes they were still. There were noises from the trees, scratching and rustling as the culprits were hunted; hiding in the shadows at the edge of the scene. Figs hung, not quite ready to eat, and, in the black of it all, the gold from the window lay warm across the water. 

Left stage, this mortal coil. RIP TG.  

Yesterday my wounds were bound, soaked in wine and oil. The wine was red, now I am blue, the binds have come undone. There are fireworks out the window. There are trees too, chicken shops, chalk cliffs, heathland, moors, smugglers caves, a buried heart, tin mines, the ocean, big empty spaces, blue mountains, the coal scar, fields of sunflowers, ghost towns, desert, asphalt, plankton, then a party. One person leaves, then another arrives. Sometimes there's an overlap. The landlady gets angry. One goes to sleep and the other awakes. One is thinking of the fox with the light behind his eyes, and the oil on her head. The other thinks of dinner, and the right amount to load onto the fork.

I looked out of the bedroom window. There was a man in the garden. He looked like he was up to mischief. And then he wasn't there anymore.

Young Heracles rides triumphant! Blackened eyes and milk fat cheeks She supped the water from his bowl But forgot the cream.

She saw a funeral cortege pass by today. It pulled into the cemetery by her house. It was a beautiful day and the grass had been not long cut. Blossom still fell from the trees.  It was an open coffin. His face was waxy and drained of colour; just dusty pink brushed onto his cheeks in a room near where he now lay.  A lady, dressed as Pierrot, lay slumped at his feet. She was limp, like an antique doll shaken by a baby. She had cried so hard that her body had dried out completely. Desperately thirsty, she lapped at the pool of tears below, but the salt crystallised and cracked her tongue. Her blood dripped down onto the pool below. A pulcinella waved from her broken reflection, laughing.  The nun began the eulogy. "I dreamt of autumn in the dim glass light, Of friends, with you, in their motley love, And like a falcon, tasting blood in flight, The swooping heart alighted on your glove. But time would grow old, and deaf, and pass, And, lightly touching frames wit...

There's no need to surrender. But watch that you aren't killed by your own traps. No one wants to starve; to be starved of anything. Frederick Clegg Frederick As a pastime, watching butterflies and moths is known as butterflying and mothing. The latter has given rise to the term "mother" for someone who engages in this activity. Frederick wants to own Miranda and in a way he does; she is trapped. He knew he would do whatever it took to have her, even if it was against her will. Miranda is helpless and after initial fear feels pity and softness for her keeper; when she realises there is no escape, this softness hardens.  "He is solid; immovable, iron-willed. He showed me one day his killing bottle. I'm imprisoned in it. Fluttering against the glass. Because I can see through it I still think I can escape. I have hope. But it's all an illusion.    A thick round wall of glass."     Miranda meaning:  'to be admired'. Miranda surrendered. ...

He tumbled into the underworld.  Though she swam quickly behind there was only silt to be found in the depths. Nothing more here than a silver fish with an emerald eye. She had seen him before. Back then the fish had almost stolen her life but this time he comes bearing a gift.   She rips open his belly; a spear, golden bright!  One finger pressed to her lip, a dagger against the heart.

Norway  Mull, Scotland Osiris was your favourite

That's what they said about the Van Witteghems. Always holidaying. Maybe he came into money? It'll be inherited. Have you seen his hands? Never seen a days work. The kids are just miserable though. Yes, you never see them play with the other children. It's as if they think they're better than the rest of us. The girls don't say a word, apart from the little one. But she is his favourite. Oh I hear he rules that family with an iron fist. And she 's just miserable, always cleaning and I've never heard of a house that needs it less! Oh, she'll be dead soon. Mark my words. So you've been in the house then? No, but I've heard. Everyone's talking about them.

Margaret never got over the time they made her dress like a clown.

Katherine was a delightful travelling companion. Though quite lost, she taught me many things. Some are glaringly obvious but easy to forget. Everyone dies.  This is particularly important to know in order to stop yourself simply walking into oncoming traffic. Doing so can cause your own death and that of others. Here I am in Pompeii before the unseen cart. Luckily no-one was hurt in this particular incident. Everyone is in love.  At some point. If not with others, then with themselves. This can cause great pain. Pain rhymes with Cumaean. I don't feel that it is worth expanding upon this point in great detail. Everyone is tormented.  Most of the time. And if they're not? Well, it must be denial or death. Or they aren't thinking enough. What do you do when your loved one lays down their head and doesn't pick it back up? Take to the streets? Everyone has introduced sperm into their uterus, except for Katherine. Katherine is childless. But she...