Friday, December 08, 1995

Friday, 8 December, 1995

A rather well-known inward emigrant knows the secrets of so many other hearts, other strings to the bow, heard at intervals in a place of deep seclusion. Inseparable, honored, but otherwise untouched. These violent outbursts on paper; when they reach our age (and who does not) laugh at the plots, the names of stars and beautiful racehorses, leaking rowboats, boys who can swim at the age of four, muscular pains and nervous patients. So often have they been praised to the skies or pulled to pieces.

Listen to the quiet rythmic beat rather ironically. Take a bit more trouble. All my adventures; so many harsh words. Found out the rest from books and things. Courage to walk through the silent things may alter, as Brer Rabbit says. No recourse but to agree, if quiet there were. My pity untouched, marked by flame, visible only to those brought up from the nether earth, who have no interior perception. Sunk down again, a safe journey home on the blood-red skin of justice.

The time may come to show real feelings; and if the sun shines, rather forward with so much admiration, to think, and write stories, and dare to name or touch, of that which will come. Ordinary people ordinary girls. Handkerchief soaked in some good scent, pleasure even now when I recall. I must smoke and smoke and smoke, and then the food, oh dear, oh dear, released from the somber scenes for a moment, something about the great wide world this afternoon.

The war between desire and common sense; sick of all the remarks and all the questioning. All the more precise and adroit because of this awhile, for the look of things. Easier to talk beside the open window in semidarkness (not much difference between noise and silence) and look at the moon from there in the twilight beside an open window. Some live coals in it, some coriander seeds and an ounce of benzine: all the visible things of this world. Sit here on a Friday evening and recall it all, word for word, scarlet in spite of all the precautions. (onto precarious ground, about blood).

The teapot stands, with the cozy over it, on the table, and the guests come in.