Tue - October 4, 2005

Where does it begin 



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Wed - August 17, 2005

Dreams of Catia, again 



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Thu - June 30, 2005

entropy 



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Wed - May 4, 2005

in somnis 


 

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Tue - December 7, 2004

Dulce's friends 



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Tue - September 28, 2004

Black Cat Missing 



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Black Cat Hill 



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Mon - September 13, 2004

Stolen 



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Thu - August 5, 2004

.. after all these years... 



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Fri - July 9, 2004

sepia 



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Wed - July 7, 2004

in the beginning there was... a black and white photograph 



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Tue - June 15, 2004

mucky pink blanket 



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Mon - April 26, 2004

Dream of the Devil 



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Wed - March 24, 2004

angels 


The whole superior thing was making me think of that old short story that I never quite finished -hardly ever got started, really, even though I kept coming back to several times, about the Angels.... They had come as advisors or counsellors, as benefactors and slowly, in a period of a few years, had taken over the running of our societies, even though they never assumed titles, there wasn't an Angel president, or king, or dictator, but we all knew who was really in charge. Or rather, we all knew it was them but we didn't quite know which particular angel was the one in charge of our part of the world, or to whom or what they were answerable to.

...Their presence made you feel weak in the knee, they were so beautiful, they radiated a sort of light, a feeling of longing for something we'd lost and would never recover and they somehow still had.... and you also felt sinful, inferior, guilty and clumsy in the presence of perfection, which, when it became clear that the Angels were cruel, sadistic overlords and not envoys from a merciful god, made it all the more difficult to organise any kind of resistance to what had become their occupation.

...At all this the Angel was still standing there, radiating that luminosity, that beautiful thing that made you feel something like love, something like unworthiness, something like amazement. 

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Wed - March 10, 2004

adrift in the sea of memories 


while i teach a flood of memories comes to me, half torn to shreds, half destroyed by time and distance and yet poignant and sharp, Probably the cumulative effect of not enough sleep for days on end. The relentless tide of memory brings a surf of things long forgotten, half decaying already and breaking up as they surface and crash against the waking world.

...oh, what was his name, and we were playing neil young's 'down by the river' on two guitars, alternating primitive solos on the one pentatonic scale we knew. Or I'm sitting in the setting sun at a park overlooking Avenida Bolivar with that girl who I had gone to meet after she'd finished work...... She wasn't any more interested in me than I was in her, so, why did we kiss? why were we playing romance sitting on a park bench in the setting sun?

But I don't get the story back, only a vignette with a fragment of emotion attached, like some old fragrance freed upon opening an old jar containing it and a few old photographs.

...I know it is not a dream, I know what a dream is but can remember little about myself and nothing about how i got there. There are other shadows that I can make out in the distance and beyond the bends in the red passage.... There is a current quietly taking me away little by little.

...Heidi screamt, I had water in my eyes now so could only look down and see the wooden toy-like rail sleepers, the water coming up in bursts, the small metal wheels, the green seats that looked bright in the distance but which this close look chipped and shabby.... I don't do either, I am there and yet I am not, as always, detached as well as immersed.

Out of the red darkness comes the train, sun beams breaking through the foliage and dancing on the carriage seats, the light and colour outside also dancing.

...As I haven't seen in waking life the Grey Dawn Beach either, the heavy clouds dragging themselves across the horizon, the grey colour sand under the leaden skies, a hut in the distance and me standing there on my own, shaking out of cold or fear or something else I cannot fathom from here, from my classroom at Watford Boys Grammar School where I spend my tuesdays waiting for the next pupil, not awaiting the shot that may finish me to appear from some distant corner which i cannot see. 

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