Is what I do here so different? I am trying to do as he suggests and give it a miss. I just quickly check for messages, that’s all. Don’t scroll down. Just don’t. I don’t want to see. Both sisters have written something. I’m glad that that the first is happier now and feels more able to be open and communicative. And the other? Well, she does so much and it all goes down. What to make of it? Is it not the same? A capturing of life. A showing of life. Perhaps not. I write for myself. Who knows who reads it? Maybe no one. I write for myself, always. I write to get it out, to make sense of it, to order it. Facebook has to be different. The motives are not the same. Look at me, some are saying, look at my life, don’t you want it? Others are saying I’m feeling shit will you love me? Will you make me feel better, my friends, my thousands upon thousands of friends? I too post things there. And on Twitter. But I tell myself I am expected to, that I must advertise my writings. I keep me out of it, mostly. Not here, though I try to write vaguely, no names. No names.
Dodo. I say. Her sister calls her Dodo. Dado? he asks. No, I reply, Dodo, DODO! How can I hear you when your head is stuck out of a fucking window? He is shouting now. Now he is laughing. It soon goes, that fire, that flame of anger. It is me, I am agitated. He picks it up. It is me.
I’m standing on a ledge with my head stuck out of the skylight. The sun is hot on my face. I need some sunlight. I should go for a walk but I am tired and long for my afternoon sleep. And it is cold. This is a compromise. I can see forever, way over the rooftops. I feel my face warming. Lovely. Just lovely. Except for the shouting. What is the name of the film? It isn’t a film, I want to say. It’s a book. Middlemarch, I say to the clouds, the trees, the rooks. What? he calls. Middlemarch. Middlemarch.
If you were a character from fiction who would you be? Dorothea Casaubon. Why? She is full of ideas, full of schemes, longs to do good, to have a big life making a difference. She gives it all up for love, for marriage to become another hidden life and unvisited tomb. Or Jane Eyre, Elizabeth Bennet, or Jane Bennet or maybe Charlotte Lucas sans husband or Lucy Snow from Villette……
Two girls were sitting on a bench as I approached the Pier Pressure night club. It was gone three am and lots of youths were milling about. The girls, one dark, the other blonde, were sprawled on the seat. Every now and again one or the other of them would turn and shout at a crowd of what I can only assume were lads walking on the other side of the road. Grow a dick! the blonde girl shouted. Her hair was in a side pony tail and her lacy vest had slipped off her shoulders. Grow a dick and come back to us, she continued. Her friend repeated her words but louder, her red-lipstick-covered mouth a cavern. GROW A DICK. GROW A DICK AND COME BACK TO US. YOU’LL HAVE TO GROW A DICK IF YOU WANT TO HIT US!
Hit us? She didn’t mean that surely. Or was it some kind of restricted code for ‘hit on us’ perhaps? Is this the new courting? The new wooing? They weren’t scared to taunt in this way. They were delighted with themselves and their wit.
Walking past The Angel something flies towards me landing with a clatter on the ground. A boy tumbles towards it, legs awry. If I can’t do anything, he shouts to his friends, at least I can throw my phone.
A preparation day. Just get the stuff ready. And stop fretting, it will be what it will be. It is a try-out, a tester. There are no right or wrong ways of doing it. A simple line. I think about a sampler but perhaps it is too complicated. I want to be alert, just let my fingers do mechanical things. That is enough.
I want to ask her. She wrote about it in her Book of Silence. She talked of her day where she walks, writes, prays and sews. What do you sew? I want to ask. What do you sew? And there is a quote I want to find in there. She writes about a woman who was shipwrecked on an island for years, if I remember correctly. She too sewed. It mapped out her day, gave it form. What did she sew?
Time to work. Enough. What is it that Goethe, there is power in beginning?