![]()
Ko Siu Lan, All That is Rose Melts Into Air, 120 Kg of Rose Petals, India, 2008 Hemingway pacing up and down in his den saying : 'There is another dimension. I am full aware of it, but I can't get to it'. So he was trapped in his reporting of externals, his faithfulness to the surface, to words actually said.- James BoydAn enormous, overwhelming desire for tales to be lost in. To weave, to be woven, to bring everything together.A satellite heading to earth tonight. I head the other way - far from myself, my doubts, my anxieties, my direction or lack of it. Away from here. The times so dramatically in contrast of belonging, fitting, nesting.I cycle blind to the beach past midnight. Owls passing over my head, shrews scurrying between my two tyres. They never get hit. I cycle fast to peddle the blues out of me. The moon so bright it burns my skin. Sirens on the bypass, a constant in these days. People torching their own houses, for things have to change. They must. Peddle so hard that my lungs explode, that steam rises from my skin. But I can't get there, cannot touch it or discover it. It will only come when all falls away. I know it too, but must give myself entirely to something, to all.Past the two broken down trucks, a smoking tin bin fire, the horses. Past the plum trees that have long stopped offering their fruit. Almost Autumn now and golden leaves will take their place. Past the old farm roads, the rusty tower, the rabbits leaping away from me. And the gunshots. It's hunting season. For an instant I yearn for a blast to the head. I taunt them, shouting out to them, yelling myself hoarse. 'Take your best shot!', I croon. To be invincible for a moment, to fear nothing, to brave death. But they are too far away and I know it and just as quickly as the desire comes, it soars away and I reach for a pulse once more. For harsh, raw, tender, nectar existence. Turn it to song, to imagination, to wonder and wandering. I make a list in my head of all the things I adore. Try not to dwell on who I miss so much, how it all feels impossible right now. That she will not come, that fear will be more powerful than excitement and joy. Wild mushrooms, Paris, Rumi, waking up next to Ven. The tingle of new travels, soup in winter, red wine, Anais Nin. Grass dew, tea at sunset. Forests.Being here and cycling.The beginnings, once more, of a search for mysticism. I go back east. I listen to the winds of Persia. Climb the hill and scoot back down it, along the thin path to the sea. Cross the two lakes and push up to the dunes. A bottle of cider that was dragged back sixty miles in a messenger bag. Eight bottles of it found discarded behind a supermarket. Gave one to my driver who stopped for me, heading to the sea too for kite surfing. The best place in these lands for it. As the waves come to me, close to my feet now. Wrapped up, warm. Ducks flying over me head to sea. Where are we going? I don't know, I murmer to myself. Build yourself up and you can do anything, go anywhere. We forget so often. I could drink the night. I fix my headtorch, like a lighthouse and give myself to my notebook.All this anxiety, this neurosis, this unfulfilled longing. Just concentrate on these small things and everything else will happen as it may. To make this corner of the earth, small...almost invisible...to make it liveable. More than this - to give it passion, softness and feeling. I turn round. A large, dark shape on the dunes. Somehow I'd missed it.A van.At this time, it's like an intrusion. As if to find an old shrivelled man sleeping in your bed. I imagine them waking to the sunset and the dawn birds. I turn on back to the sea, opening up.
