saturday

So, in an attempt to do all the work needed i am staying at Holloway for Easter, which, though probably a good idea in the long run, is very boring. i have been alone in the house for but one day, and already i am starved of human contact. Anyway, to the point. i have just written the first draft of the beginning of my chapter 3. the problem is i think it works quite well as the beginning to a novel but can't be arsed to cut the first two chapters or somehow reshape it. who knows? Anyway here it is, any thoughts would be welcome.

When there’s an accident in London the ambulance takes an average of nine minutes to reach the scene, which is four minutes more than it takes a news crew to reach a hotel near Madrid. In London people don’t call an ambulance if they think that the person will be dead in nine minutes. Busy workers don’t care who’s face down in front of a Barclays bank with blood pouring from the self inflicted bullet wound in their chest. Even off duty ambulance drivers feel hate for on duty ambulance drivers, who weave through traffic likely to delay every driver by the ten seconds that would inevitably cause them to be late. In a busy city a lot of photographs can be taken in nine minutes.

Two days after my wife jumped I was having her funeral alone in a cemetery a mile from the hotel. I was speaking to an unmarked grave with nothing inside. The police still had my wife but I needed to do something before I left her alone. I couldn’t even afford a proper headstone so I may as well have held a ceremony in a park or by a lake. I could have taken the small wooden cross and buried her somewhere more exclusive than a cemetery. But I didn’t. She was religious and deserved a proper burial, even if it was just me speaking to a wooden cross in the middle of a cemetery thousands of miles from home. There was no vicar or priest or point. But I needed to do something.

The spot I had taken for her grave was in the corner of the cemetery, eight or so feet from the surrounding fence. The cemetery was pretty full. A lot of inconsiderate people had been dying. When the cemetery run out of space they would need to open up another cemetery, and the first person to be buried there would have an entire field to themselves for a while. But I don’t suppose you get lonely when you’re dead. It’s the ones left alive who are alone.



Oh yeah, any random people reading this be warned. i will sue if any of it is stolen. Happy Easter.

A Poem.

The Palace is a pseudonym of God’s

The sky is clear, but there is a cold wind

That cools me too much, and I struggle to keep warm.

In front of me is a man pushing a trolley down the pavement,

And I follow him, like I have always done before.

The more I follow him, the more I trust him.

But today the trust is gone, and I walk

From behind Him, past Him, to in front of Him.

I no longer follow Him, and He is now behind me.

I walk on with frantic pace, faster, forward, faster, forward, and faster.

And the man pushing the trolley is now far behind me.

And if I was to turn around now he would be too far back for me too see

Him. And I can no longer hear the wheels of his trolley

Clatter as they ricochet off the clunky pavement.

A girl waves at me from a passing car, but I don’t recognize her

Because she is in a car, which is moving fast.

I wave back anyway, and the memory of the girl morphs until

It is someone that I wanted to wave at me.

And I pretend it is her that waved.

I stop on the bridge that crosses the Road, and I watch,

As the cars flash by with people inside of them.

People with places to see and people to go, and though I don’t know them

I imagine for a second that I do, and that they are all friends of mine.

I wonder whether any of them would ever talk to me if they weren’t my friends,

I wonder whether any of them would touch me, laugh at my jokes, kiss me or

Fuck me.

I used to be so innocent.

I look up at the sky that was so clear and is now so dark,

I have been standing on the bridge for too long now and

I must go back to the palace.

But in all the thrill and fun I have forgotten where the palace is,

And I wonder whether I will ever re-remember it.

I am lost in the night and I want to go home.

But in all the thrill and fun of the day I have changed where home is.

I know that everything will be okay because I am comforted

by the sound of music, and by the streetlights that I will now use to guide me.

But now The Music has stopped and The Lights have gone out.

I am in the dark and the cold and I want to hear some music to comfort me.

But The Music has stopped.