Art, Psychology

Peaks and Troughs…

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Strange to say… The rest of white-week is… Hazy… The night of white… Easy… A Sunday… Unable to travel to a long anticipated concert… Front row seats… And the next day… The struggle to reach sixth-form… Someone who had got there… and then got back… relaying the news… Hanging about with mates… More and more school closures… and after that… Zilch!… What did we do with our free week? Played in the snow… Presumably… There are some snow scenes floating about… Running and sliding on the road… Red noses and billowy breath… Never been good with cold… Cold feels like death…

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There are lots of little deaths in life… Most of them are tied up with time… The death of morning… Afternoon… Evening… The death of trees… Skeletal… The death of light… Easy to kill cultures… Take away their language… Or their land… Or their rights… Or all three… Not so easy to kill whole races… Until now… Was Dolly really a sheep?… Racial memory has the capacity to spontaneously re-erupt… And in the strangest of places… Souls have identity… Possibly are identity… At any rate they are both tied together… Like time and death…

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The death of the year… Nearly there… Twenty to Twenty-Two… A pile of ‘dog-do’… That stench, though… It clears the head… Virtue… But at a distance… Only… All the facades of democracy… Laid bare… Oh, how the middle-class… Now stare!… No more divisions… The art of parties… Was gradually acquired… That year… Worst thing ever… But necessary… The memories float to the surface of the mind… Like bile… And drift… Unattached… The most heinous of crimes… It has never really been an issue… But don’t tell the ladies… Or the gents… That year the tell-a-vision… was all but redundant…

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