Monday, July 15

Pet Sounds, Track Eleven

OCCASIONALLY I AM SO overwhelmed with a particular emotion* that I feel drunk with it; often the emotion is one of acute anger and self-loathing. My shakes become ferocious, my hands curl up into fists and I stumble the streets, cursing aloud so that people turn and look at me—‘Get out of my way, you fucking cunt.’ I walk in the sunshine, cooking up a thick sweat all over my body. That’s all I can think to do. Sometimes I feel very lonesome—then I get angry at myself for feeling so.
People ask me what I got up to at the weekend. I tell them nothing, so they accuse me of being a hermit.
On Saturday my aunt & uncle came over for dinner. I was doing quite well, drinking cider with food in the belly, when my uncle recalled the story of how he met my aunt. It was a story I hadn’t heard before but he felt—as did I—that it was a solid argument for Fate; one moment; an instance where everything was changed; love being planted so that forty-four years later it can be discussed over the dinner table. Finally the story made me very sad; I shut up. I drank a whiskey, and then another, and then another. I had wished to stay a little sober but, what could I do, everything collapsed?
When I was alone, I opened a bottle of wine and drank it all. I stumbled around the night garden. Drunkenly, I wandered about and regretted a great many things. It was pitch black. I didn’t know what to do.
In the evenings, when the train rolls through the countryside toward my seaside town, that it when everything shines. The colours are effigies of gold. The trees on the horizon are drops of ink on the edge of a watery sky. A fine breeze comes through the window as I read. I think of my novel, which I have begun for the third time and it has filled with me with vigour and purpose—so that even now I might ask you to forgive my frightfully bad prose—I am focusing my attention elsewhere. Once this novel is finished, I don’t know what will happen.
There are times of joy, too. During work hours I stand by the pavement, have a cigarette and watch the world pass me by; the ladies with their legs pass me by. O, the legs! I could watch them all day and never tire. Such a fine pair of legs struts down the street and I am captivated, a poet in mourning, utterly breathtaken by what I see. The sun strikes me very strong. All is well. Or my converstions with the man who owns the little stall next to the one of the tall skyscrapers. I believe that he trusts me ever since I told him he gave me too much change. Now everyday he asks me how I am and I ask how he is. He has sad eyes on a face that droops but I like him.
If I am not thinking of H—n or of beauty then I am thinking about death—a strange combination, though I try to suppress thoughts of anything but beauty; the difficulty being I see it in the other two.

*I shall apologise in advance; just before I sat down to write this, I saw something that I did not wish to see and, as such, I shouldn’t have touched a keyboard.

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