Thursday, May 24, 2007

The Transformation.

The first time I opened the book I have just finished I was immediately struck by the romantic inscription on the title page. They shall never take away the time we spent together my darling, or something equally as wonderful, and tragic, and deliciously delirious and romantic. Unfortunately the inscription was made out to the woman I loved, and "the time we spent together" was about two weeks prior, a time I affectionally like to think of as "when I was still going out with her" or "when she was on a holiday telling me she missed me". To be honest opening that particular book that day felt like opening my front door to discover my lover's lover casually withdrawing mid-coitus and excusing himself with a shake and a flourish and he dismissively shot fountains of jism across my face. Oh, sorry about that old fellow, would you mind holding my umbrella while I give the old girl a quick kiss? I stare dumbfounded as behind the chorus in the background is just blood and tangled and sad, empty eyes.

But you know, who am I to take anyone's time from them. Such moments are but part of the rich tapestry of human existence which is from time to time shat upon by various errant curs, vermin and pussies. Ce la vie. Say my name, say my name...

Eventually, curiosity was released after serving time for felicide - minimum security as the judge had also owned a tapestry - and I found myself holding a copy of the book in my hand and paying money for it and taking it home and spreading it open with my fingers and and and...and I wanted to not like it, I wanted to be bad to it, to own it, to treat it horribly, use it and cast it aside and I'd read other books in my bed, same sheets, and sometimes I'd even read them aloud, sexier, wilder books, but I'd always return and read these beautifully vicious, tragically comic passages until eventually I read:

This is a long book. This book has pictures. I like pictures. Pictures are good. There is a picture of a man. There is a picture of a house. There is a picture of a lady. You have to read pages but you don't have to read pictures. I like pictures because pictures are good.

and laughing out loud I closed the book and let everything fall away and wondered while I sat in front of my heater in my little country house with my big unfashionable boofhead woolen hood over my head - I wondered about spite and ego and sadness and loss and time and lust and passion and spirit and faith and most of all I wondered about perspective and about the veracity of your own feelings and how that's all you've got to go on but it should never mean you don't leave room for other people's too even if you just wanna say, fuck it, fuck it all to Hell, you can still keep a little secret spot of understanding for the whole world and the way people are just plain retarded, and at that moment there was an unexpected knock on my door and although it's dangerous to say it: somedays you wake up and you just know it's going to be a good day.

So I hope you have one too.


The author spends some quiet time at home in his wooly hood.

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