Thursday, December 8

Drizzle Cake

About that time I had the feeling that I was very tired and that I should go out into the rain. It was raining, yes, but not quite so heavily. If one peered out of the window – pale in its reflection – they would see rain falling but it was really not so bad. The wind, too, could have been stronger. It was that trademark London rain; pathetic and drab, a rain that endows all the aged buildings with a halo of gloom, magnificent and grey. I only wished to get out of the office for a moment and stretch my legs, to puff my lungs up & open. I set off. So often I struggle to find new excitement in these walks; paths that I have trod so many times. To reinvigorate things, I keep my chin tilted back and my eyes to the sky and to the rooftops; there are a great many treats up there. It was on one such occasion when – taking a back road to elongate the distance – I saw a view from a spot I had not surveyed before, and up there, at the peak of the building, was a golden grasshopper. I was stunned, because the gold was so bright and so pure! The light was at just an angle (three o’clock, when it starts to set) that the grasshopper was caught deliciously and it shone. How unappreciated the grasshopper must be that even I had only just seen it! A gentleman bumped into me and we exchanged apologies. But, o, the golden grasshopper; its hind legs were blades of sunshine.
No such sun today.
I walked down this street and then another. The drizzle came on my face with my tilted chin and I enjoyed the feel of it. The Sunday pedestrians walked so slowly that I walked in the road, and I rushed. I walked with great speed and purpose, yet I had nowhere to go, nowhere in mind. I walked. Buses and bicycles sped past me and I reveled in how close they were to knocking me over. They went past and thought to themselves—‘There is a man with great speed and purpose!’ I passed a bookshop but remembered that there were holy things inside and I should take a look. The queue was long and the rooms and aisles were hot. A man approached and stood in front of me. His lips were moving, so I removed my headphones—‘Do you work here?’ I stared at him and paused, to accentuate his stupid question, then I replied—‘No. No, I do not work here.’ And I shook my head at him as he walked away. What employee would walk around with their headphones in, covered in rainwater? A stupid man. I dreamt of putting my pen through his neck. Then I went to look at the art books, the monographs and so-on. The word ART was written at the top of the shelf, although not enough books where stack upon it. I pulled interesting spines out of their crowd and studied them. When no-one was looking, I held the book up to my nose and smelled it. I left without purchasing anything.
Ah, what’s this? An art shop! I went straight inside, without hesitating. I looked at the various oil colours. The shade I preferred the most was Permanent Rose; its name expressed in numerous languages—Rose Permanent, Rosa Permanente. It would do fine for inner labia or emphasised flesh tones. I bought it. Next to me, also perusing the oil colours was a lady long and thin. All of her was long and thin. Even her coat was long and thin. Her pale white face was pierced by the bright red genitals of her painted lips. I dared not look at her; it was rude; she was just there to look at oil paints as well. We had that in common. I remembered why I painted. Permanent rose.

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