Thursday, November 16, 2006

Part Toe-Nain

I find myself back into that house, inside it’s walls. I’m standing in the living room again, or what used to pass as a living room. It is as if a violent wind has blown straight through the room, knocking over small tables, sweeping books off the arms of chairs, littering the carpet with ash and cigarette stubs from an ashtray which was wheeling there, ready to topple. The walls are ruthless, the furniture heavy, damaged, loaded with character; sofas and chairs are like large people making conversation.

I see a man, very still, sitting back in his chair, smoking. The ash on his cigarette lenghtens itself and drops. He frowns, gives me an irritated look, hastily pulls an ashtray towards him in a way that says at the same time he should have remembered the ashtray before, but that he feels like having the right to drop his ashes.

He sighs, quite unselfconsciously, and starts talking to no one in particular.
“But what can you give out when you get nothing in? I am empty, drained. I am exhausted by lunchtime and all I want is to sleep. And when you think of what I used to be, what I was capable of! I never thought of being tired, I never imagined I could become the sort of man who would never have the time to open a book. But there it is.”

I wonder if he expects an answer from me, a reassurance perhaps, but I decide to sit down and say nothing. I stare at the man, who I imagine has wonderful stories to tell, but am too afraid to approach him. I know I can help him, but he looks unreal somehow, as if I was to touch him, he would surely disappear. Yet I can think of nothing else. Silently I sit in his company, secretively suspecting him to dismiss me at any time. But he doesn’t, and the hours go by. As I watch him fall asleep, I smile.

The Phantom Ape asks: what are you doing?

I answer: enjoying the moment.

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

Part Toe-Eyth

"It ain't what you do, it's the way that you do it."

Thank you my friend.

Part Toe-Sephenn

Hey Francis Bacon, you know that from the hurting that I am, I have no part!
If you don’t come to undress me with a firm hand, my nude figure weeping covered by night, covered by thick paint, how can I ever burst through that stupid crust? How can I break tomorrow out of my list of you? You locked me in a freedom which can’t pronounce ‘us’! My mouth has been painted on, to the strokes of heaven, banished, tooth grinding, by an anonymous pencil which you handle yourself. My name is dead within your box of clouds, grass and flesh. It's smeared over me. Distance and saying your goodbyes is the horny metaphysics of men who keep their love hot and moisted on a far away place, and that’s how they boil their days. Leaving, slamming the doors, is the pure melodrama of men who have swallowed their lovers and only make religion of their swelling flesh. I know these two, they are alone, but for each other they have time, the same, but on different grounds. Like the shores of the same heavenly wide stream. In that water they lie mirrored seperately, watching the passing, passing the watching and no man knows what sailed inside them. Listen to me, Francis Bacon, from the hurting that I am, I have no part!