Um

Stepping nimbly from Hansom top I cast my, um, brr to the mire and bounded, nimbly, up rainslick steps: two—to—four—for—five—fie! Alone in the gazebo, by dainty Nouveau curls, sat sweetly Ben, victim of muddying, puddling Melbourne. It may have been a near thing: pausing mid-gallop, clocking the sky—Zounds! Clouds!—then steering his mane to cover (swiftly, if his barely moistened outfit was any sign). Mummied in red ribbon, a dusting of ginger bristles about the jawline, he turned his head mildly, sweetly, his features almost softening as I approached. And down, lithely, I sat, my light grey suit damp, dark grey. Lovely day, old rock! A tiny smile, registering like a twitch. You’re wondering, of course, what I'm doing here. Heralding the apocalypse? He was more substantial than I remembered him, nearly a brawler's build. But though set in an age-inflated face, his sweet Jersey cow eyes, awash in a tender melancholy, had lost none of their puissance.

I fished a thermos from my drawers. Whisky? It’s 3pm. I didn't ask the time. Things that bad, huh? Pouring out a palmful: a writer must have his poison. What’s your excuse, then? I threw back my hand. Ergh. Want to know why I'm here? Let’s say I do. Drumming rain; timpani thunder; baby geese by the stables. Rising, dramatic middle-distant stare: the Renaissance! Well, it was nice seeing you again. I'm being serious. Yes, I fear you are. Allow me my monologue, sweet Ben, for I have come to you fresh from Hell itself. So that I might stand before you today I have braved most disastrous, uh— Chances. Right. And beaches, too. His fingers rippled, signalling impatience. I have climbed mesas and mountains, crawled on my hands through jungle, committed treason against my own self. What. (You might catch up if you follow the references I wreck.) The point is, comrade, it’s been rough. And I need my 2IC. I need my Ben.

He surveyed the sheets of weather with a brooding air. I’m afraid your Ben is rather busy right now. Too busy for revolution? What would we be revolting against, exactly? Exactly everything: jobs, parents, taxes, losing touch with friends. It’d be us against the world. He shifted. The world is not opposing us. The world is indifferent to us. It does not give us a second thought. The Renaissance? It’s dead. Has been for over a decade now. Sure, you could gussy up its corpse, maybe fool yourself a spell, but it won’t change anything. The hole will still be a hole. He draped an arm over the nearer of my shoulders and exhaled sympathetically. I hear exercise helps. The downpour eased into drizzle. A drop of golden sun (me). Then it was clear. Standing, Ben smoothed a crease on his jumbo jodhpurs. I wasn’t too icy, was I? You were, yes. The best I’d ever known. But I take it you will not be again.

Onset

Reader, I am returned—gunked up, fuzzy about the edges, but returned. Returned from the wilderness; from dread cigarettes; from nine years (plus!) of inactivity. Returned, triumphant, from the bowels of the Overflow. Sweep away my magnificent unwashed hair—parse the bone structure, the slope of the nose, the glisten of the lips, and you’ll see that the oncoming figure is me, a web log from 2005. Near-heroic, bursting through bramble on a counterfeit horse: a picture of courage and resilience and after-dark ache—returned, raising my cutlass under everlasting stars. There is no remnant of community in these weeds, and it is not the 8th of May. But it is Melbourne, the bolthole into which we were born, and it is spring, the season of hay fever and hope, and it is me, the tireless progenitor of revolutions. Read the change in my eyes, not my waning body—the depth they convey, the promise that this time, this time, it will be different.

Let me settle a moment with this warm teacup and this ugly cross-stitch blanket and I will tell you where I buried the silver. There are clues sewn into my sentences but I suspect, at this stage in the game, the reader would prefer plainspeak. Permit me this brief diversion into scene-setting (its relevance will become clear):—April: feverish on the bed of my childhood, with the blind not drawn and something of autumn stealing in, I was the recipient of an epiphany, one of those curious revelatory sensations that come about with the force of shock and tend rather to alter the old worldview. I had experienced bouts before, little jolts of purpose after dark, but nothing so acute, so potent, so transformative. It lasted for the best part of a week, as piercingly as in its first sting, and only reduced in intensity when I had committed—in blood—to return. (You’ll recall, I hope, that I made good on this commitment.)

Queueing for cleanskins down Murphy’s (following afore. epiph.) I hatched a plot; and under blush candleglow (following return) I made a map, on which, in sensual crimson, I marked out the locations of five key individuals. Isolation is essential, the principle from which all other principles derive, but not in isolation; in isolation its benefits are negated, snuffed out by the absence of external stimuli. I knew that if this was going to work, work like it never once has, and probably can’t, I would need allies by my side, or at least mooning about the periphery; allies who can withstand bad winds and worse poetry; allies from my old red book, estranged or otherwise, who had stood with me all those years ago. But I will persist even if none can be rallied—even if the shareholders tire of my (ardent) ways and I’m thrown from the board. No matter my number, no matter the odds, these hideous timeworn antlers will light up the dark.

Sullenly Thirty

I'm aware this is some days postmature, and banal like tinned spaghetti, but I needed it to sink in a little. More than most this is a milestone that begets regret, forcing a recollective wince even in the accomplished. There was, granted, a minuscule mercy of timing in that I had two solid days to mourn a decade wasted before I was compelled to mourn nearly six that were not. This collision afforded a welcome diminishing of self-pity, though my aspect was still that of a man who would punch a wedding cake at the slightest provocation. 

The first movement was beige with discrete chunks, in line with what I had been consuming. The second was a vibrant red torrent, rather cinematic in its way. When I eventually followed up, the practitioner matter-of-factly extinguished the faint hope it was a symptom and sent me on my way with the instruction to drink less. I had fifteen minutes between trains and I found myself in line to purchase what I already knew to be a poor excuse for poutine. It tasted like a heart attack, albeit a delicious one, and I missed my connection. The paunch-possessing ghoul with lovely hair—about two weeks post cut—would have to wait a further twenty minutes.

Back at the office, my editor wasn't thrilled with my suggested titles for the pieces on insomnia and narcolepsy I had turned in ("Desperately Seeking Snoozin'" and "Suddenly Snoozin'", respectively), thinking they trivialised the conditions. He also proclaimed the reference points were too obscure, even though the former grossed over 27 million at the box office and the latter ran for a moderately successful four seasons. The fool.

Whatever peculiar forces have propelled me here, whatever valleys I have managed to traverse, I stand before you now, a greyer, fatter, sadder reflection. And I realise that joy is nowhere but inside a yellow box at the bottom of my refrigerator, and a nozzle lets it out.

Horace in a Vacuum

Here’s something with a view to something. Borne of eighteen minutes spent at a window, it begins like this, with a tap filling a bathtub and a radio on, and it ends like this. Somewhere in the middle I’m curled asleep, letters spilling from my nightstand and a projection on the inner curve of my forehead. Elsewhere my phone's blinking, nothing like a guillotine’s blade. There's something on if you wanna go, it said, if you can be at the station around seven. Yeah, I guess so, but at the time I wasn't sure I was willing to forsake an evening of not being at the station around seven. I put my arms in my jacket.

It had been raining. I slipped three of the buttons on my jacket into three slits on the other side, assuming this was what the buttons and slits were for (nothing on the jacket told me so), and pushed on for a further six minutes. It was short of around seven when I stepped onto the station and the owner of the voice on the phone was already there, dressed tidily in jeans, belt, T-shirt and a jacket of his own. It was less clothes than would be necessary to keep satisfactorily warm, perhaps why there was no warmth in his smile when he saw me. We boarded the second carriage and sat opposite one another by a window on the far side. I noticed he had a crumb or a loose bit of skin on his lower lip which remained even as he yawned.

I recall a weatherboard house off Alexandra Parade, and I recall the following within it: a small woman and a smaller man seated around a kitchen table with me, the guy from the previous paragraph and someone else I don’t remember. We were drinking something from a bag that I can still taste as I climb into bed. The sheets are ruffled and yellowed and cold. I was asked, twice, what I did; I wonder what I had said. A radio drawing from an outlet set in a skirting board is discussing a film I have no inclination to see and even less inclination to hear discussed. It's distracting me from the water coming in under the door.

Amity and I

This happened. Ben or I arranged it, the overcast afternoon, some neutral location, other details like an order of hot chocolate and a short, plump black. Seeing him again was only a brief novelty, a novellaty, if you will. He appeared unchanged, despite remnants of Japan on his trousers. Not knowing what else to do, and neither of us being versed in the thing to do in any situation, we shook one another for most of a minute. The pitiable silence continued as we seated ourselves and began peeling the outers of our oranges. I had imagined he might ask me why I had not initiated any contact despite his having been back for the better part of half a month. But my imagination had clearly been thinking of someone else.

He removed his smirk-brimmed hat and I noticed that more of his hair had scarpered, perhaps on the flyover. I pictured strands bobbing freely in whichever bodies of water separate the two countries. Then he spoke. It wasn’t long before my gloomy forecast of the night before proved on the mark. Gone was whatever rapport we had managed when we we were regulars of one another's company. Now we got on famously; I was the press. I found myself asking him of his experiences without any sense of anticipation, and then switching the answers off like television. He, for his part, appeared to be enduring the occasion as if it were unpaid labour. It was, from any angle, a bust, and our ridiculous orange juice faces did little to diminish the moment of melancholy in which we realised we no longer had a reason to ever see the other again.

Remember that time, I said, attempting to rekindle something, when we were together, laughing about something, can't remember now what, but I remember it being funny as hell, and we were building off something, you know, back and forth, like a meme type thing but in real life, like it used to be, and it was night time, I remember that, possibly in Brunswick, and you said, what was it, one of those darkly funny things you used to say, and someone else was there, can't remember who, but they were just perplexed by the two of us, you know, 'cause it probably seemed severely messed up what we were saying, without any context, and also 'cause it was us and we didn't make sense at the best of times, but we kept going, unrelenting, zero exposition, and I retched into a JB bag. Ben smiled and looked at me almost fondly. No, he said.
 

Blister

Before this one, two-one-two, I'll permit an up-front, that while this is appropriate fantasea it is tonally faithful to the very real events from which it has been derived, certain beyond inspiration, and must be read in that light, in light of that. While doing so, also remember, or bear in mind, or remember, that my intent is not to glossy up or paper over or make interesting-to-read. This will be the cold minimum, only what is afforded by my recollective power only. Read it low and let its aubergine form heat too long and come up between your fingers; it is not an accident; it is how it is supposed to be. (Continued below.)

Having affectedly stumbled here not quite a year on, in real-ty over that, much mossy embarrassment lingered, and only cleared once I had convinced myself of an untruth, that the culprit suffered swollen fingers. It's cool, or nearer lukewarm, to proclaim No regrets, but I kinda regret that one, and that paragraph from that one, and commentary, never posts, that hint at life on the outside. I'm fortunate however to have possessed the good sense to have removed this March's sexual outpouring ex post facto, meaning, so far, this is all of the year. My prior self, uncucumbered by private health insurance and fatting taxis, will consider that fact with revulsion. And both would feel candles aren't right.

Instead I felt like sinking into a wet bath. But wetting oneself is almost never the answer. I owe knowing that to my Russian Answers Tree. My alternative, diving into sawdust, proved not to be the answer neither. It was one of those situations the awfulness of which infiltrates all methods of dealing with it excepting those which really one does not expect to deal with it, Percy, but would simply rather do at the time, as the above two. And in the end my way of actually dealing with it which I've been sharing with you is childbed and wretched but here goes.

What Comes After

One on a finger, feeling lowly, writing like I mean it: I wrote the word Beauty. Or rather, I wrote Beaty but meant Beauty. Tensely spinning from the inner lane, and coughing, some of all of the labels failed to take interest, or feigned not having any, not sure which of which is worse. By Beauty I meant this:—When, in the course of entering the room, he turned his head, and mine, I noticed the pocks about his face, and how they lent the whole something. Strange—hadn't thought much previously about it. But then it all seemed very deliberately sculpted, not yer usual scattershot craters. The moment went on forever, though it didn't actually (I had to escape it to write this up). It zigged and zagged and danced like a ball of electricity.

Something red, then green, then red woke me, some hours after. I pegged the lace blind. Outside it was [weather event]. and therefore unsettling. Alone but for the other people in the room, I picked myself up—I had been carelessly strewn about the room the night before—and made myself go to the kitchen, where I ended up, having succeeded. The near-definition of Beauty, outlined above, and befitting both spellings, further solidified in my estimation as I watched its incarnation drape banana peels, imprecisely erotic, across its face, and dog down a fat American breakfast. I wasn't yet able to observe noiselessly, and the ensuing sound was embarrassing for all concerned. Feeling wholly holy, basted by sunlight, lips crackling with scabs, stretching partially, some of all of me made it away from temptation.

It was, to a small and slight extent, a revelation of colour. Once a monochrome rainbow drooped mechanistically from the clouds; now not that. My eyes peeled back, as they don't usually do, and it took several hours for me to be persuaded, by the undiminished spectacle, that I hadn't been drugged, or had something comparable done to me, or that I was not simply in the midst of a fever dream. It turned out neither was true but the last. The heat and doona had done a number on me, or a number of numbers across the night. Everything was as was; outside was mute; the walls were the colour of dolour.

Eerie the Practice

It's taken time, much of it, but I've finally woken up to my awfulness. Part of me, whatever accounts for my depth, is glad to have arrived at this point, the rest of me, abdomen and otherwise, preferred ignorance. Fitting it should happen in a hotel, with sun (streaming) and radio (blaring). When the call was patched through I was escaping through all parts of my dressing gown and not yet upright.

"It's happened," said someone in my voice.
"Hm?" replied.
"You know when you get to that point of your life when you get to that point in your life?"
He stared, maybe blinked.
"It hasn't happened to you?"
"No, I'm fat with contentment," he said, maybe shrugging.
"Well, it's happened to me." I looked down and waited.
"I feel I should offer to do something."
"Thank you."
And barely anything else was said. (For the record, there was an exchange of Goodbyes and something about it being nice to catch up.)

So I went home with it, no danger of its escaping. There, from an absence of onion, the thinner half of a carrot, two tomatoes, one large unwashed potato, two eggs, spices and cheese I fashioned a not completely inedible success.

Fellows' Bounce

In greater designs the foundation upon which all else and otherwise pivots is never so inextricable as in designs of a peculiarly organic nature, that is designs whose executions are gradual to the point of near-imperceptibility, and whose final appearances seem wilfully to obscure their origins. In such cases as these, (of which there is an easy abundance), the question of design is only arrived at after inspired deliberation, and only unravelled after longer periods of picking-apart—hence requiring extremes of eloquence to move beyond the originating, uniquely thinking vessel. The expansive needs, therefore, of this theory were scarcely, if at all, met, and it has taken only the slow dawning of generations to facilitate its arrival as something broadly palatable to the collective intellect.

Never ones for populism, the stepping-stone individuals, insulated by peers, resisted any expansion, passing their papers in hushes and glances. But no matter how careful or secretive they were, rumours bred and circled, and soon it was decided that a coming-out-with-it would be less damaging. At first, this was in the form of succeeding hints, then, finally, a four-hour breakdown with a rapidly traded mic and an overwhelmed moderator. They began and ended on a note of deflation, that rose above the crowd as if caught and sunk again lengthwise. The reaction was surprise. Quills danced and the intake was deafening. Six hundred people would be dead before the year was out, all from unrelated conditions.

One of its legacies has never fully resolved itself. Before of which moments prior were tied to some loose philosophy of doubt, even a triumphed one, now selections had been drawn and cast just barely over without any of the and spilling that once had been understood to be in line with a feeling about which much which had that was previously before neither of the beliefs were tying over the not included feelings, feelings that were it nearly in time to believe that each had a feeling of that once before neither had included, some general overdrawn of thought pomposted wildly, and ruggedly in the middle distance.

Today More Than Ever

I know: not a sole representative of twelve trying months and months of trying. It is tempting to concede the shame has brought me here. But truth being what it is— This will no longer be a home for housekeeping. Theref., as you can plainly, the above is the final on the matter, more not to follow, not even where prefaced by anticipatory I knows. I shan’t even mention, even here, my no-longer contemporaries but one, as I have been no-longer, too, for long enough. That being said—if that counts as being said—, I would like to say, briefly, and with full knowledge of the resultant failures of every of its predecessors, that this sentence marks a henceforth of effort, if not (probably) profusion. And with that last of the keeping done, I’ll commence.

Firstly, no secondly, to the business of the day, of what happened within it. I was startled awake for the fifth consecutive morning by birds in my loft. My only measure of defence against the recent heat-wave had been to keep my windows up overnight. And now they were perched around the bowl that housed my breakfast, and bathing gaily in my coffee. It proved an appetite-sapping sensation of feathers, bird blobs and mysterious gluten-substitute, and I ditched at least half of it in favour of a dozen singles and a hastily whisked nog. My day looked up from there, at a sky with gouacher colours than I was used to. 

I had walked over three kilometres, nearly five, to an ailing sibling, the dual victim of weather and parental conspiracy. It was nearing dark when I saw the gate. The company upon arrival was agreeably ingenuous, allowing me sufficient space to tend to the bedside. I thanked them each and together. Over the next four hours I wrote twenty-six letters on borrowed stationery. Completing the last one (Z), I folded up my piece of paper and failed to contain my pride.

Four Score and Seven Somethings

Quiet but for the steps up, austerely wooden and creaking their age, then the door itself, which scraped and squealed open. There was a film of dust on everything, including the man in the doorway. He looked as if he had been torn away from a life’s work, as if preparing to smash four impertinent kneecaps, but something inside him clicked and we were shown in. Silently we made our way past ancient assortments of study and long-since-inspiring busts, my companion unable to keep his eyebrows a respectable distance from his hairline. Then a small back-office, where we were beckoned faintly to sit. Which we did.

"It's, ahem, nice to see you," said the proprietor, pronouncing the throat-clear rather than bothering to affect it.
"I suppose it must be," said Ben.
"You too," I said.
He shifted slightly.
"My daughters have told me all about you."
"Lies!" said Ben, attempting to perfect the moment with a friendly punch on the arm but connecting instead with a none-too-pleased left breast.
"Quite," was (looking down) all he could manage, Ben sheepishly withdrawing as he did so.
"You too," I said.

...

"So what is it you do?"
"Well," began Ben, "there's absolutely everything to be said for not working."
The man failed to conceal his wince.
"We've attended several promising interviews," I added.
“You’re—” he started, the rest of the sentence catching in his throat. He composed himself. “You’re— not employed?”
“Unemployed, in fact,” said Ben, enjoying himself.
I smiled weakly. “Between engagements.”
“I see.” The man took four slow, seething breaths. “And you expect me to give you my blessing, to give over my daughters to— the unemployed?”
“It’s the bride’s parents who foot the bill, is it not?”
It was always difficult being tactful with Ben about.
“Excuse me?”
“Traditionally, at least,” said Ben. “And my friend and I are nothing if not traditional.”
“And what about after that?”
“Hm?”
“How will you support them after the wedding?”
“By then we’ll have finished our novels,” said Ben.
“Novels?”
“I’ve already deleted eighty pages. Can’t be far off now.”
By this time he had his chair turned completely away from us and was staring down the wall for want of a window.
“Plot?” he asked, though the question mark was barely audible.
“Man wakes up one morning and suddenly realises life is cold and empty.”
“That’s a premise," he snapped. "What else happens?”
“Well, he walks about a bit, meets a few chaps, has a scrape or two. But he ends up not having changed his mind about it.”
“Good God.”
“Yours was about spies or something, wasn’t it, Hugh?”
“No. I’m not quite up to the part where you come up with a plot yet.”
“No? Which part, then?"
“Debilitating self-doubt.”

He shut down at that point. We were both experts at provocation but it was as if he had willed his heart to cease. Nothing would awaken inside him again.

We went home and had sex with our girlfriends.

The Interest of All, Needs at a Heart, Pillows, Fingers, Outrage!

Some semi-fragile thing, peering out across the moops. I was doing my best in my best suit, covered mostly, but sick-feeling. The scene converged and I fell into another bosom. I beg your!— something like that. Hell, maybe it was Yours. But my tongue don't go backwards too well, seems almost designed that way, and she near lost her lung in bloody murder. In need of a pick-up, I muscled the former (self-appointed) DJ off the decks and slipped in a disc of my own bringing. Somewhere amidst the phlegm and cheer a heart could be heard, and it spoke to me.

Perhaps partially alcohol, but the face upstairs is friendlier, homelier than you'd expect. And familiar like a stranger in a dream is. You don't expect to find it face-down, or in this state of bludgeon, yet I'm certain my eyes were correct. Light was overwhelming, backdrops were standard, everything had a dullness of purpose— I could barely hold on to being there and it didn't last. Its voice initially brought to mind lacking villains on science fiction television, artificial sonority and all, but a more palatable croon developed for the closer. I was compelled.

Further on, stumbling through the embers of the occasion, I found myself beside the wrong arm of the couch, with the hosts on the other, suddenly very interested in their watches. No music, less food. I mean to say, I'm not entirely blind to outstaying my welcome. I had a thought for them. I kissed, I danced and all was forgiven.

Stephen Malcolm Doughnut

I'm almost completely unsure what edification means, only that it means something. It's a similar way with almost everything else. You fumble to present something, something uncertain, and you're sick, and you can't look it. You can't barely look, just meekly wait and murmur not. Now, flushed of colour, he narrows his eyes, a once-over, then, dismissively, "Built for a computer at best", and continues on. My neighbour sneezes, unblessed.

Usually, I wait in a café, the same most times, and my man brings 'em to me. He shoves the good ones across the table and holds the others back until I summon them, probably hoping I won't. I don't this time because he's just standing there and I know what that means. I leave, saying nothing, and have one of those tiresome walks of the soul. The experience is one of rain and few people, nice in that way but short on revelation. I feel only the looming of the auction.

Some drummer, barely in a suit, soundtracked my arrival. I sneered my displeasure and made for the stairs, already regretting my presence. Somehow it all came together in my speech, a certain fashionable cynicism mingling with smirking dopery. I had the lion's choice of indiscretion, but went home with a headache instead.

Fifth Night

This might well be worth the words— A noise here awoke me. I poured myself out of bed, then poured myself out, sliding into the bath at the bottom of the shower. The bed had yellowed somewhat, roughly where I had been. I lit one-two-three-four... twenty-six candles. Briefly, I thought of mailing it—briefly. (Fortunately) sobered by popped coffee—

It's indistinguishable sometimes. Rather than bother, I prefer to accept that. Easier, I'm sure you'll agree, than wading through six hundred or so synonyms. Easier, too, than doing. It might seem deeply, abhorrently indolent—and there I won't dispute, but it does—or rather, must—have a grain of some such that can't be too far from truth.

What must be noted, what can not not be noted, is that when all is done, and nothing undone, the older-wiser wonder is wiser and fuller of wonder, and older. Where that begins, or ends, or— sorry, I suddenly have that song in mind: "Excuse, please, excuse, please, the rat, the rat, the rat on the keys." Seems appropriate somehow.

Among Statues

Having key moments of one's life reenacted by familiar-looking strangers is not something very many of us are afforded, however we might wish it. As such, the closest approximation I can manage is happening upon your doppelgänger at a bank robbery; the mere realisation that you haven't, in fact, misplaced your sanity is a struggle not easily resolved, and the guilt, unjustified though it may be, never quite leaves. It's hard, too, to avoid lapsing into solipsism at the secular wonder of it all—I won't say it's not flattering.

I admit I was a shade disappointed when I first strolled through the facsimile. Everyone was either bored or on the verge of a migraine. An overweight man whom I supposed to be the director nodded faintly as I approached. No point easing into it.
"I object, foremost, to my being portrayed as infinitely more attractive than I ever was." He seemed only curious, so I continued. "At my peak I was an average mannequin with waste-bin hair, as similar to this magnetic fop as I was to a stretch of freeway. I can assure you I never turned a single head. But that crime I would be willing to overlook, if the opposite problem did not present itself with your heroine."
Perhaps it was unwise to engage him in earshot of all concerned, but it's hard to feel anything but indignant when you've been ejected by your own hack biographer. I should have noted immediately that a middle-aged man who thinks a baseball cap conceals baldness knows little about beauty, and not pressed the point.

And now I await the result. If bigger people exist, and they might well not, I'm sure they would be severely uninterested in the whole business (eschewing it in favour of, I don't know, being a c---), but—and I speak as something vaguely human—how could this not fascinate you? How could this horror not intrigue you?

Forgive my language, I was born into it.

A Winning Style

Speeding ahead on a cloud of hubris, the cynic some grand figure behind, I'm reminded of earlier times, times when such things almost almost mattered. When waving to affiliates shrunken by distance was the cap of your night. When searing referrals were waged across pages in glitter and pomp. Hell, when there was a sense of c— No. I can't say it. Now, blitzed and conquered by everything from inspiration to indolence, the greatest thrill is uncertain, hiding within whatever something we've yet to try. Which isn't to distract from my central thesis: you'll need several full-time subordinates, a glut of the very best luck and another century of technological advancement to catch me.

Bearing all that in mind, zaghafte Schritte have been taken towards Wiedergeburt. What they are will have to remain a secret for the time, but know that they have followable footprints—stuff you can touch. Forgive me, it's rather difficult to express some of this in English. Was ich meine ist, dass die überwiegende unterschwellige Erotik unter mir ist Anfang bis Blase an die Oberfläche, wie so viele Gerüche. Kissen zurück, die Arme gekreuzt, ich Entleerungsvorrichtung ein Ei. Endlich, endlich!

As I streak ever further, the beguiling but bested ant stretches out in the pool, commanding the calm. Bathers beside look on in envy at a swimming suit not bursting from the body beneath and a swimmer with infallible glide. The microorganism exits the water, augustly draped in a towel, and everything else is crude, undignified. I collapse in memory. Turning back: a speck, wearing the light in the eyes of others, and infinite dots.

More on This, Some on That

I've noticed a deficiency. Whenever I stroll long into the night, alone but for a thermos and a notepad, my mind resorts to the crudest of existentialisms and I find myself peeling back blinds and searching the sky for answers. I never quite fall to my knees and bellow something embarrassing, but it's an alarming development all the same. I can only pray this acne of the soul will fade. If not sorted out in one's prime, such philosophies tend to set with age, and before you know it, you're clutching a faded German tome and indirectly inciting your friends and family to murder you in your sleep.

Elsewhere I've been conducting an experiment in breakfasts. Instead of the usual cup of tea and crumpet, I've taken to fixing a stout bowl of porridge, sans any adornments. I haven't yet brought myself to eat it, mind you—I don't know if it's how I make it, but it always seems to resemble offcuts of wool dropped in milk and then forgotten about. My recent breakfasts have thus consisted of little more than my sneering at the bowl in front of me, my mouth only opening to gag. The experiment will only become valid if I actually consume the stuff, so for the moment I'll just have to do without. Such is the call to publish.

And now, of course, to the weather. Though at present I'm hardly what you'd call in it, I can sufficiently recall what it was like when I was, even if that isn't exactly an accurate reflection of how it's progressed since then. Actually, that's not true. I've just spent three days not noticing such things.

Peer Here

Every so often, one feels obliged to organise what is worst called a "catch-up", a sort of vague precautionary measure against seeming overly asocial. The key is not to be too transparent about the whole business. The café was perfect: an informal yet refined venue, for the accidental yet considerate host. I drained the last of my coffee and shivered. Ben, toying with the Hawaiian slice I'd bought him, laughed and reached for his hot chocolate.
"Well, it beats a walk," conceded Harry, bubbling a pocket bong.
"Must you?" I said.
"I must."
I gave Ben a look but he seemed neither to condone nor condemn.
"How's everybody been?" I ventured.

The conversation greyed and died, eventually succumbing to the noxious blend of Ben's indifference and my tiresome routines. Propped by a seemingly infinite cache of anecdotes, Harry had ultimate power but was content to let it slide. I started again.
"Are you working on anything, Harry?"
"Yes!" he yelped, betraying much. "It's about this feisty young brunette, all sex-appeal and balls. Cute, but not glamorous, you know? She's strong, too, but not so you'd notice—like, she's got muscle, but no muscles. And despite her bust she's small, petite even, and she's got these horizontal-stripe socks."
"And?"
"And she's a bounty hunter." Harry looked around for approval and found only frowns. No less confident, he continued. "And get this, she's dead but she's been brought back to life by this voodoo spell, so she's got all these cool voodoo tattoos and shit—tomboyish but sexy."
"Right."
"And there are these cool skeleton guys who are after her for some reason. Evil motherfuckers, but cool. I might do a spin-off with them."
"Right."
"And the bounties, the people she kills—they fucking deserve it, man, let me tell you. Rapists, murderers, done all sorts of shit with kids, you wouldn't believe. She's a public servant, really."
"OK—"
"And you should see the shit she carries. Two mean fucking handguns, I'll tell you—steam-powered."
"Steam-powered?"
"Yeah! Fucking steam-punk guns! They've got this sort of hand-madey, ye-olde look, with like chips in the metal, and sometimes they jam."
"I—"
"I know! Imagine that! She's standing there, in the middle of the jungle, like twenty skeleton guys around her, and the gun fucking jams! What the fuck does she do?"
"Use the other one?" offered Ben.
"Well..." Harry thought a moment. "No! She'd already lost the other one somehow. It's just that one. And these guys are closing in. And let me tell you, if there's twenty guys you don't want closing in on you, it's these twenty motherfuckers."
"So what does she do?"
"That, my friend, is where the fun really begins."
"You mean all this time we weren't having it?"
Harry looked at Ben, more perplexed than offended.
"Just wait 'til you hear this."
"I'll try," said Ben.
"Right, so, they're closing in, her gun's jammed, it's all looking hopeless. This is the end. But hang on... What's this in my backpack? My swords!"
"Swords?"
"Yeah! The ten she got from this rare Japanese guy, the only ten in the world."
"Ten?"
"Yeah! Now, I know what you're thinking—how does she fight with ten swords?"
"I was thinking more along the lines of why, but go on," interjected Ben.
"Well, it's simple," Harry continued. "Voodoo. The same spell that brought her back to life has given her the power to wield ten blades at once. It's this ancient power, and it's gonna have a cool name, like 'Sword o' Ten Tails' or something."
"Please never say that again," said Ben.
"And that's how she beats 'em, skeleton shish kebabs."

I waited a few minutes before asking Ben the same.
"I'd prefer it if you didn't call me Harry, but yes."
"Care to elaborate?"
"Not really."
"Another misanthropic tale of loss and loss?"
"More or less. And how about your lovely self?"
"Me? I'm too busy writing this to do anything."

Three-Eleven Crumbs

When something momentous crumbles (notice the etymological clue), more oft. than noft. the remainders lose much, if not all, of their former vitality, no matter how insistently or damn-well stubbornly they power on. Sometimes, however—sometimes the dwindlers, the individual smithereens, manage a spark that promises more than anything in antebellum. Whether they deliver is another thing, but that small glint among the debris is so rare as to be priceless, or at least next to worthless. And it deserves its two-thirds-scale replica, complete with anachronistic mining machinery and exorbitant pricing. Sometimes it's a cannon with a frog on top.

The above optimism owes some to timing: I'm poised before a stretch of mismatched pillows, mismatched feasts and field days, to mention nothing of the six discs of suppressed ardour lined up—and to mention nothing of the most important part. That last is somewhere in the ether at present, swallowing volatile logic. One hopes for a cameo. Meanwhile he makes another artefact, less direct, perhaps, but it amounts to much the same. Flying 'cross the desert in a TWA, I drop it square in the sand, for the fun of future -ologists. The present don't need it yet and I bump into a girl.

Whether or not any of this manifests is academic, the spark is there. I won't yet utter the dreaded R-words, but with a certain month approaching it can't be far from my fingers. Shh, sit down. I'm just saying. Nothing more than a slightly sceptical nod at this point. Best not to plague the thing until it's more of a thing. And if it's not already clear— well, that's not likely to change. But I will say this.

Dust, I Gather

A man loomed down on, I sat somewhere in the grass and pewter, where it struck: it's supposed to pour, isn't it? I had, a few moments prior, opened yet another prematurely, a picaresque epic of character and detail (blurb), and the mammoth feat of its creation indicated to me a degree, at least, of pouring, the fingers straggling behind the furiously forming mind, the author the vessel for some divine though necessarily agnostic message. Not quite Alone in the Café, but drawing the perfect line between one's mind and one's surroundings so as to drink in just enough of the latter to fuel the former. That is, the point before revelation becomes distraction.

Many a would-be would be shot through with renewed vigour were they to peek at a first draft of anything in the canon, says theory. But would not they also realise, in one terrible moment, that inspiration can never circumvent Hard Work? There the fun rushes from their face and the doubts creep solemnly in: a flash that proves fruitless is still only a flash; months, years, that's where you want to be damn sure going in. It's supposed to bloody pour—I canvased this to erstwhile author Ben and was treated to a little of his insides.
"Listen, man, you can't be thinking about that kind of thoughts. You just got to write. It's fact. People who think don't write."
"Yeah, that's good, man, I get ya, but that's like theory—not really. It's theoretics. You can say write, and you said it, and thank you, but what does it actually mean in practice?"
"No no, it's got to be real straight-off. You've got to be thinking 'This is it' all the time, you dig? Not thinking thinking, just 'This is it'."
"I see, I see. But I don't quite get what you're getting at."
"Write, plain and simple."
"Write plain and simple?"
"Yes! Put it on paper, punch it. Get it down. You got me?"
"I got you. I just don't know what you mean."
This went on for some time before we both finally agreed that the best thing to do was do.

Let's say a wave of energy whose momentum needs not the p-promise of pay or prestige to proceed. Returning, as if from a dream, the feeling-guilty translateur denies authorship and claims to be little more than a go-between; the craftsman who has fought for every word wants credit for every word, too. Is there something better betwixt the two? The K-to-the-A-to-the-Other-Five-Letters, though busy at an autoclave, did find an answer: "Maybe." And so I stayed, the truth in my heart and the weather on my face.