He moved through his days like an iceberg. Slow and adrift, the immensity of his loneliness hidden beneath the surface, and denied even by himself.
He would have denied the existence of his very soul if he could. He would have denied the existence of his existence.
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Notes:
1. Written in May 2020
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The crows gathered on the roof of the house. A hundred of them or more, all in a row, a cacophony of caws as they jostled for position amongst the crowd. On observing this event, many of the wisest sages and scholars from the town pondered the exact meaning of such an occurrence.
“Look at all the crows!” said Ethel. “I wonder what they’re all doing up there?” “I bet they’re hungry,” said Tina. “And now they’re looking for food.” “Crows eat eyeballs,” Daniel said seriously. “Dead eyeballs.” That was all he knew about crows. “Our house must smell of rotting meat then,” Claire said. “We must live in a house of dead flesh!”
“A gathering of crows like that means there’s going to be a storm,” Agnes called out to the children as they played on the swing. “You better all come inside before you get wet. I’ll make some hot chocolate and we can watch the lightning through the window.”
“An ominous warning,” the witch said, as she watched through her telescope from afar, in the comfort of her cottage, in the safety of the woods. “A portent for the horrors to come.” She cackled so gleefully the dolls covered their ears.
Back at the house, the crows, unaware of the speculation over the purpose of their existence, slid one by one down the icy gutter as if it was a slide, then joined the back of the queue to wait for another go.
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Notes:
1. Written between May 12th, 2021 and May 21st, 2021
2. I love crows
3. And wish of course to be one
The doors had been locked for as long as anyone could remember. The curtains were always drawn. There was a new mayor in there now, apparently. No one knew what this would mean, but it was all anyone talked about for a week.
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Notes:
1. Written between May 11th and May 17th
2. Although quite why it took so long to write three lines I do not know
“There it is!” Claire called out. “I saw it!”
“Where?” said Ethel.
“There!”
“That’s just a rock, Claire,” Tina said.
“It’s not a rock. It’s the whale!”
“If it’s the whale, why isn’t it moving?”
“Because it’s dead!”
“If it was dead it’d sink,” Daniel said. “And it’s bones would become a castle.”
“For mermaids!” Ethel said.
“Mermaids don’t exist, Ethel,” Claire said. “And dead things float, Daniel!”
“The whale is not dead, Claire,” Tina said. “So stop saying it is. I’ll get upset.”
“You’re always getting upset,” Claire said. She sat down on the grass with the others and started brushing her hair. “Anyway, maybe it is a stupid rock AND the whale is dead. That way we can both be unhappy.”
“Can I be unhappy?” Ethel asked.
“No!”
“Well, that’s not fair at all,” Ethel said.
They all sat there in silence, and dreamt of whales, bones, castles, mermaids.
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Notes:
1. Written on May 14th, 2021
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The bus stops at the edge of town. Two feet step down onto the cracked pavement. Black leather shoes as shiny tar. Look up, see the suit, the shirt, the hair, the smile. The eyes. The eyes. The camera lingers there for longer than it should. But you can’t blame it. You could lose yourself in those eyes, you really could.
Even when the shot cuts away, showing him in miniature against the immensity of the landscape and the grand sweep of the town, as he disappears into the greyness and the murk where we all live, it’s those eyes you remember, those eyes that remain.
A thousand silent movies bloom in your mind.
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Notes:
1. Written on May 12th, 2021
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