My Six Favourite Seasons (In Reverse Order)
The scooter goes past. Shout out to the scooter, to the thin outer edges where the dream trails of into sheer representation: the kind of thing you wouldn’t want to take home to your mother, until you have to, and then, suddenly, like something out of another dream completely, you think, no, of course, it’s perfectly fine, I am, I will, and so on, that sort of irrecoverable thing, just a mood, teetering as usual in a certain direction.
The thin, perplexed air, gathering all the while. Bathsheba to the left of things in the unvelvety clothes her mother must have thought yes about. So much for descriptive licence. They said, do what you like, write what you like, be what you like. On hearing this, I just disappeared, frankly. Give me a rule! Like in the Bible! But their faces had already turned inward, or to other faces, or other inner faces, who can tell, who who could tell would wish to force their telling into a sad, said thing? Not I. And the others are others.
Then the moon tips: as though to wash one particularly irritating thing from its face – its own reflection, perhaps. It’s potential to have a reflection, more like. So there it goes, clearly visible from the window, down into the lake. Clumsy like a cow, but celestial – flying, birchy white colour – all the same. More likely the whole thing just a self-corroborating reminder that I should do the dishes now, or at least walk in that direction.
Now, though, Bathsheba really is naked. She is given the where are your clothes now Bathsheba questionnaire which she leaves wholly blank. Unsmiling, squatting low in the new wilderness of yes, I do have a body, what now, motherfucker? The trees disappear at the thought.
A spoon hangs so low that I can’t help but think what is going on here, though, really? At which the spoon does nothing. The dream of a conscious process which would make things go back slowly to their origins, at least to a place of rest, is a fucked-up dream, one which I would stop dreaming completely if I could. But you can’t, whispers the spoon, before diving deep into the honey pot and floating towards my mouth. Oh God, someone take me home!
Glib sorrowtude. The word home written in sand, but upside-down, and walked over thousands of times until it wasn’t ever written there – and then the sea, also, encroaches, returns the sand to its favourite condition – extreme flatness. You were eating ice-cream all the while, trying not to, but waiting hopefully for the moment when the ice-cream gets all over your face and the person employed to lick any ice-cream off walks over to you slowly from outside the car-park, the cliff top, the sandy country I’d move to in a second if someone would just say okay, fine.