Monday, July 10


I could write; but, no, I won’t, I won’t write a single word. Not a letter shall leave my fingers this evening! There are greater things to do, to get done. You think you are reading me right now but you’re not. You think your eyes are passing over my arrangement of symbols and that makes you believe that I am lying, but I say to you that I am not writing a single word.
After all, it is too hot to write. For days on end I have witnessed the weathermen and –women lie to my face; they tell me one temperature and then it is quite another! No, I cannot write a thing in this heat. It is unbearable. I can only dream of writing. The weatherman looks at me, through that vessel of a camera, and tells me tomorrow will be cooler, yet he lies! It is just the same heat and not a particle of air moves to relieve me. I know that if I even tried to write I would perspire and my skull would become too hot to function properly and any words that came out of me would be pure nonsense. He knows this too, the weatherman, and still he continues his lies.
There is so much to write about.
Even if I did sit down and try to write about it then I would probably get one or two sentences down before hitting a wall, figuratively and literally. I would open my body up so that parts which had been perspiring might dry, and think—‘Hmm, I really am not much of a writer!’ There have been writers in hotter climes, far greater writers. A little bit of heat and look at me! This is me in my underwear, with thick blood, gasping for some respite; not much, just an evening to get it all down.
At first the cold water is discomforting but then, while soaping myself, I begin to miss it. Cold showers are my kind of thing at the moment. I cannot go a single day without at least two cold showers. The mirror is not steamed up and there is a chance to admire one’s tan, the bliss of summer’s colour. An acute longing for the freckles of my youth; when did they go and where did they go to? If only one could pull them from the dead leaves and put them back on his or her face. So the mirror isn’t steamed-up, and a comb is run through my hair, turning all that towelled disarray into something organised. And all of my freckles are gone. I have not the patience to await their return.
I could write tonight; but, no, I won’t! It is one man’s mission to stay sober (so as to prevent that boozy tiredness) and write when it is dark; hope hope hoping that it is cooler then. And now that I am at a loss for words, I record that I could write tonight, but, no, I will not.

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