Being alone so much, I tend to forget life is one of the performing arts.
I try to console myself with the idea that any happiness resting upon the existence of others remains vulnerable.
But it doesn’t help my loneliness.
Life feels like a club from which I have been barred.
This starts me musing on the chance nature of love: wherever people are, with someone they happen to meet.
Except for myself.
Wherever I am, whoever I meet, love never occurs.
I suppose a frame of drama around oneself suits the ego. To imagine others perceive us with great arcs of opinion, rather than as bit players on the set of their reality.
Then my mind wanders to what future archaeologists will make of us on the basis of our pottery. And I realise the previous thread has been lost.
I had a feeling like knocking on my own door.
Even though I was already inside.
Daily notes (1)
Participatory evolution: We reach into our genes to begin playing with ourselves.
Loneliness can be exacerbated by human contact. Some relationships would fracture from honesty.
Yet this hunger remains for a love I have never experienced. Inside me contend both need for connection and recognition of its improbability.
Isolation is also a defence. (7/12/1978)
As armour against compassion winners may assume their status is simply a matter of justice.
Religion is not beyond the sphere of human vanity.
One danger of questions: by casting them in a certain form we are led toward compatible answers.
A flow of perceptions and memory. Can we extrapolate “Self” from this: like the projectionist in our cranial cinema? What if we find his room empty except for a turning mechanism?
If I am always becoming, along some stream of present moments, where is a complete self to be found? (14/12/1978)
Of a father who appeared so dominant that only by passivity might his rage, at any rival maleness, be avoided.
Yet a father who demanded this intimidated son be strong, active, masculine.
Creating a personality afraid to be assertive, and ashamed of its fear.
I wrote this thinking of Kafka. But perhaps I was describing myself?
Lostness (7) 1978
Souls wake in sperm-forests
they cry out from my groin
wanting to swim across dreamy membranes
to become flesh and memory.
Significance undermined by time.
Turning away from death: we travel just as fast at it, backwards.
When I am ill objects seem to grow stranger.
Philosophy senses the problematic in all things. Once dogma is lost existence comes into question. Alienation as a price of freedom.
Awareness creates separation: the potential for loneliness.
When means are bad, ends get debased.
“Portion of space bounded by surfaces.” This definition of solid also defines a hole.
Words are snakes
is a lion.
Weak as a dribble
and too ill for sex
on another unwelcome morning
one look then
doorways to nothingness
open in my mind
over absent possibility
wishing I was once more alive
through city nights
with chance to be preyed upon
just unfriendly dawn
blurred across the pallid sky
while this clock ticks
few neurons fire
temper’s flame burning lower
malady forms its closed sphere
I feel squashed there
like a bug.
Night is so huge.
Lines mark my face
Recalling a compliment
from her eyes
an arm intent on embrace
across our separateness.
Now lonely in this unshared world
anxiety clogs my heart.
Will I be admitted to sleep
I watch windows darken
through shuffling leaves
shake rushes of air.
I remember your loneliness
dark nights without soul
familiar routes across the housing estate
so many chill evenings
walking through a silent valley
I saw you falter
on wet winter pavements
felt mute prayers
covet some sluice-gate to heaven
aching for starlight
legs dragging you back toward
a morass of bad dreams
that hollow house
its old fridge humming insect vibrations
those years drifting
brain at ferment
alert for roaming dogs
or being stopped by police at two a.m.
they watched you
trailing your slug despair
along deserted streets
to a room easily lost
cold air closing over you
in damp layers