| ze future |
[Dec. 4th, 2021|11:29 pm] |
After ditching the BMW, I kill time by entering, illicitly, into what seems to be an Italian deli. I am not checked as it is packed within and without and, without warning they strike up some surging burst of opera - you can hear the heartbeat - the common sanguine knowledge - as the melodies crash upon the window and mill about in passionate turbulence among hanging meats - the light in the store the kind of faded blue you see in old film.
Dead now, bled.
Didn’t have any credit in the palm, but I did have some Cash, which for a laugh I thought I would use to buy a ticket from a human woman working in the train station. No one can have done that all this century - they even look at me like I am a retard or a tourist as I approach their desk. I couldn’t care less - but she turns up her nose so much that a male colleague has to take over. ‘Cash’ she mutters as she retreats to the arrangement of sleek 4IR equipment, “and I’d like to know where you got it from?”
As though it were a virus I’d picked up.
“You don’t remember when we used to use it?” I say, flicking through the notes - almost antique now - and not worth much - this yellow 100-Yuro note barely holding enough water to take one of the veins into the Capital.
He deals with me okay even though I don’t even know where I want to go - but it is a dream, don’t you know.
End up in Fakenham - you can’t get there by train, so I had had to get a lift from a pagan who said he’d spent a week at the local school, which was according to the information he gives in an asthmatic wheeze, “a fucking mental institution.” He let me out in the car park opposite the fish and chip shop, which all those years ago I had stared at while my daughter had her first period and my mother contracted cancer. “And look at the state of the asphalt”, he spluttered. It’s like a still of a fucking storm at sea.” As if the material world is warping to accommodate our madness.
The cafes in the high street, which used to be normal, are now just for bums and the chronically ill. The toilets are beyond disgusting, and the conversations at the tables I pass are, I assume in my self-conscious way, being tilted at me like two bow fingers. I don’t have a pass anyway, so the loss of appetite is a relief.
I find them later - the ones I was looking for from the past. They are in the communal hall with old collective emotions surging through them, articulating the things we used to do in our youth - like a laugh, and a swig, and a fag, plunging baselines and riffs looping out of the current and cavorting round the bend - and ghostlike arms on drunken shoulders: just spirit. I try to divine for something, but the rods in my hands don’t move: just the room - it starts to swirl around me.
And even writing that has got me charged in the ether. Something that, I assume is not picked up in the register. Do they have the physics to understand it? Would it help if I had been impregnated with the sensor?
The future has the same amount of mystery. It conceals at the same rate it reveals as the skirt hunter 33 Grade FreeMason, Dave, told me between puffs of fag smoke on a Riga terrace.
So the next part I will keep to myself.
You join me now in the blue of the pre-dawn. The stars are a frozen frenzy and the boughs creak and stoop with white. In the hallway of a house that doesn’t belong to me the Neo-platonic busts are illuminated, and some stirring of Wagner’s prelude to the Ring is in the air. I enter a room and there is a human woman alluring in medical white. Some people called in my head with some technology you don’t have yet - a JG and KW. There is some joke I am not in on, but she - all curves and understanding - requires my presence on a massage bed. No way, darling, even though the Morning Stag is engorged: she was going to break my neck. Sex and convenience is always a trap. You can see why the Holy Men escaped to the desert. It is your soul they want, the sovereignty of your soul.
I never entered into an initiation ceremony. At least not knowingly.
“Lucky you got out,” says the Pagan as he wakes me with a kick outside the chippy. “Some cunt of a poet was trying to find truth by getting words to rhyme - and you, you had your hand up someone’s arse, while he had his up yours: both of you were singing from one of them two fecking scripts, like tweedledum and tweedledee. For a while anyway. There then followed - and this was in some tributary of information streams you don’t have yet - some discussion of the Words of Lawyers, or Liars, or Layers of Stones - the law was common anyway.”
“Yeah?”
He coughs, looks at his watch and suggests we leave before some crow alights looking to conjure up pleasures for some fizz, and my horse turns into a dog, and back into a horse and so on. |
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| Comments: |
notepad and paste, bro, otherwise it's unreadable
Speciaali izmantoju opciju samazinaat burtus. Varu tos taisit lielaakus bet tik un staasts buutu nelasams.
notepad and paste, martin!
labi labi, Martin! - kaa tagad? | |
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