Half past six the phone rings concentrated on the background noises, the vacuum cleaner downstairs, other motors humming disconnected words only
Preparing baths for the daughters, two pails of warm water and their plastic ponies floating and circling there on the water, drifter and dreamer. Earlier, rinsing the dishes, idle, always charmed by the movement of the pale white whorls of foam, curling and forking between the objects that penetrate the surface. The currents slowly die, come to rest, still fingers white under the surface, beginning to reach after the cutlery laying on the bottom of the sink.
Listening looking into those things. Always too slow to attract interest. A lonely impression
Running to catch the bus, then the empty road, just taking in the landscape, walking steadily and thinking about photography and writing. How to achieve a routine of writing on a day-to-day basis like random snapshot photography? Dropped the idea of using a dictaphone long time ago already. Would run out of tapes. And who would do the transcript.
The raw field and the dignified golf course, stretching away as a kind of a valley, snow-covered willows arranged to please a bourgeois eye. But it's beautiful and all is blended into the darkening blue in the distance High tension lines, woods.
No one would want to read it as a diary, or then I wouldn't be interested in that kind of audience. But, in order to keep on writing daily, non-fiction, or anti-fiction, one must probably adopt the diary format as the most convenient. There are some traditions. Some other people believe in dream books. Important messages from the television.
When the background noises go down, one's hearing becomes more sensitive. Maybe the signal-to-noise ratios stay constant all the time, more or less, tinnitus and the sound of the blood in the veins. Take in the landscape, concentrate on the background noise and ignore the signals.
Yesterday, went into a public library
Lonely dog barking out in lonesome threes, rudimentary songs on other days, there will be response from the black one in the neighbourhood. Sending messages to each other, "Lonely tonight, waiting"
Enzymes for your stomach, something that you'll need it says. They must be thinking about their metabolism, thinking about themselves, their digestion, pre-christmas tensions
Cruising on the buses. It's beginning to get dark, the window's a transparent mirror, doubling that what's bright inside, imposed upon the blackness outside. Going out, a matter of minutes. Counting moments, something very difficult to do at noon
The quiet stream, almost covered by ice by now, the horses waiting standing in small groups, still. More and more passengers getting on the bus. One girl's profile turns on some memories Remembrance, dim lights or something scattered in from the outside, through the curtains. December? 1988 already.
Angel's Avenue. Jet planes like platinum or heavenly blue aluminum shuttles darting below the grey skies.
The Independence Day unfolding in some irony playing on my own private dependencies.
Almost quiet, too dark to run dry fingers on the keyboard the movement up the scale yields a haunting melody: C-D-E flat-F-G-A flat-G-F But the rhythm's not as easy to find. The notes begin to form pairs, obeying a sound logic, thus: C and E flat, F and A flat, D and F, E flat and G; there is a dance going on Mathematics made real, but probably no-one would want to wake up into this blackness, almost midnight, to these wavering notes
I favour the plain "Grand Piano" preset, unmerciful floodlight on your minute flaws and hesitant moves