The Friday phone call brings strangeness ...

I'm thinking very much of the Japanese phrase, mono no aware - looking at this notelet, my eyes brim with tears - 

I'm aware of the sadness of being human - my heart is beating slowly - each telephone call brings strangeness - 

11.14

January 31 2015

The Old School House

East Stoke

Walking in the Cloisters ...

I walked slowly round the Cloisters, turning my collar up against the cold wind - I imagined myself, waiting here, shivering in a lawyer's gown, my fingers black with ink - 

The spire of the Cathedral joined the earth to heaven - stone was beneath my feet - the blue sky was full of angels - 

There were two ancient trees in the Cloister garden - bright grass rippled in the wind - a few moments became centuries - 

13.15

January 28 1015

The Cloisters

Salisbury Cathedral 

The Prisoners of Conscience Window ...

Above the shrine of St Osmund I could see the mysterious shimmering blue of the Prisoners of Conscience Window - two candles burned at each end of the saint's tomb - around me the Cathedral soared up to heaven - it was day after the 70th anniversary of the liberation of Aischwitz - 

I saw a lit candle wrapped around with barbed wire - I remembered Primo Levi's poem at the start of If This a Man, the terrifying radiance of its words - 

There I was, returning to my warm house, hot food and friendly faces - 

I vowed to go to the east, to the zone of smoke and ash, to gaze upon pyramids of suitcases, rooms of hair - 

13.30

January 28 2015

Trinity Chapel

Salisbury Cathedral 

Idling in the attic tea room ...

Penny and I climbed up three flights of stairs to the attic tea room - the wooden floor was like the deck of a stout bellied cog, its holds full of eccentric cargo - I'd glimpsed cabinets of pristine 1930s Dinky toys, a beautiful filmy cocktail dress, sombre clocks, prints depicting swaggering gamblers, reefs of Victorian poetry - a bronze shepherd boy shielded his eyes against an invisible sun - a naked Art Deco nymph struck a languorous pose - there was much to delight the eye - 

The walls of the tea room were decorated with leopard skins - Dolly the pug watched me eat a hazelnut biscuit - looking out of the window I saw clouds move across the sky - 

Later, I examined a foxed paperback of The Saint Overboard - the feverish cover depicted a deep sea diver's helmet - I wondered whether to buy a guardsman's tunic - 

12.00

January 28 2015

The attic tea room

Salisbury Antiques Market

Salisbury

Osmington Resurrection ...

Once inside the church, I felt as though I were at the bottom of a well, like the narrator in a story by Murakami, drifting away from one world to another - ancient shadows moved across the nave - I saw the initials MG carved into an icy flagstone - 

In the churchyard, box tombs contained delicate shards of bone - a gravestone depicted an anchor - new flowers were placed upon a fresh mound of earth - the ruins of a manor house were open to the cloudless sky - 

In a window an angel with green wings knelt in prayer - I imagined the angel unfurling his wings, I heard the sound they would make as they carried him through the air - pehaps a single perfumed feather would fall upon my head - 

Over the altar, Jesus raised Lazurus from the dead - I thought of Spencer's Cookham Resurrction - I heard the golden trumpet sound, I saw the shining bodies emerge from the heaving clay - 

13.00

January 23 2014

Osmington Church

Dorset 

Co-pilgrim singing in Leytonstone ...

Waiting for Co-pilgrim to sing their songs, I forgot my vow of abstinence - I lifted up my pint glass of Ruddles Best as though I were a Southsea Poet - I remembered watching Gareth, drinking Old Peculier in the public bar of The Buck Inn, his eyes glinting with puckish humour, entangled in his silken nets - 

Jay had taken off his trilby - I sat next to Bridget - Julia was talking to her - we'd driven to Leytonstone to see the band - the North London streets were a dark exciting labyrinth - the air smelled of diesel and rain - 

I'd never been to an ex Servicemen's club before - once inside, however,

I soon felt at home, gazing wistfully at the optics, being introduced to Jay and Bridget's friends - 

Julia and Andy had an apartment in Puerto de Soller - I imagined Jay, writing a post card, sitting in a cafe near the church in Soller, resting after walking in the mountains - 

We all fell silent when Co-pilgrim sang their songs - I gazed spellbound at the elfin chanteuse - their songs filled me with sweet sadness, like a memory of some beautiful moment - 

23.00

January 17 2015

Leytonstone Ex Servicemen's Club

Leytonstone 

The frozen garden ...

One morning last week, I left the house to enter a Ballardian crystal world - the cars were glittering frozen creatures - each blade of grass, each tendril of ivy, each fallen pine cone, was sheathed in frost - the twigs of the apple tree were like thin silver fingers - the pale sunlight fell like icy water upon the garden - 

I remembered reading Ballard's novel - perhaps if I lingered here, my body would be cocooned in crystals, my eyes would become blue jewels - 

I turned away from the shining lawn, going back inside - I picked up The Strange Library - it was half past eight in the morning - I sipped some Quinchia coffee - outside, small birds flew over the transformed garden - 

08.30

23 January 2015

The garden of The Old School House

East Stoke

Isle of Purbeck

The beach at Osmington Mills ...

We made our way along the beach like fragile dowagers - the icy glittering sea was calm - the smooth boulders were like the bones of a vast extinct reptile - dark necklaces of kelp were strewn over dazzlingly white pebbles - there might be fossils Penny said - 

I could see the distant white reef of hotels along Weymouth esplanade - a small fishing boat with an orange hull headed out towards Portland - there was no wind - I heard the sound of gentle waves - 

I felt that I was breathing ancient air - any moment I might see an emerald creature emerging from the sea - its eyes would be a yellowy gold - it would know my name - I would hear its silky voice - 

11.30

January 23 2015

The beach at Osmington Mills

Dorset 

Finishing reading the autobiography of John Cowper Powys ...

Yesterday I finished reading the Autobiography - it was just before midnight - I raked the fire - the west wind sang in the chimney - when I went outside, stars were moving across the black freezing sky - 

I started reading the book on a stormy afternoon last November - it was four o'clock - since then, I had read a few pages every day, reading each serpentine sentence at least twice, sometimes three or four times - 

I felt that I had emerged from a richly decorated labyrinth, full of terrible wonders - I was dizzy still with mysteries - 

As I stared at the smouldering apple logs, I imagined the magician, pressing his forehead against an ancient rock - wild eyed spirits coursed through his soul - 

23.45

January 23 2015

The Old School House

East Stoke

Being in the kitchen of Monkland ...

Jay played me songs by Co-Pilgrim on Spotify before dinner - we were sitting in the kitchen - a cat with fur like black feathers rubbed itself against my legs - the air was filled with spooky harmonies - I was aware of the gracious house all around me, its book filled rooms, the upright piano, the poignant pictures on the walls, the bunch of fresh coriander upon the table before me - 

Charlie had come back home from South America - he told me how he had climbed a mountain - we got up in the dark and climbed to the top in time for sun rise - 

I imagined Charlie's shadow, cast by the new Andean sun, moving over the snow, conquistadors' cathedrals on the altiplano, fish sleeping in jungle rivers - 

Bridget swiftly made a vegetable curry - she said that she was taking lessons in order to improve her swimming - I suggested that they stay with us in the summer - we could swim off Winspit, afterwards basking like lizards upon the rocks, fossils pressed against our salty skin -  

When we left the house for Leytonstone, I gazed back at the doorway - the name of the house was Monkland - the lozenges of stained glass glowed like pale jewels in the light of the hallway - 

19.00

January 17 2015

Outside Monklands

Clapton

London

Coming across the February Railway Modeller ...

Whilst searching for coriander in Sainsburys, I came across a display of magazines - for a moment I considered buying the February Railway Modeller - perhaps photographs of intricately crafted model locomotives would ease my melancholy - the sky above gentle Wareham was full of cloud - Range Rovers swept through brimming puddles - a gnarled farmer's Barbour was pearled with raindrops - 

I remembered my first train set, laying the curved sections of track under the radiogram - the pale lino was cold against my cheek - 

I used to buy the Railway Modeller - I'd gaze wide eyed at the layouts depicted on its shiny pages - I'd save up my pocket money to buy an Airfix signal box - when I watched my tank engine go round and round, I looked so hard I saw steam issuing from its funnel, I dreamt so deeply I heard the voices of tiny engineers - 

I pulled myself together - later I listened to Paul's wry anecdotes whilst he cut my hair - it had stopped raining - I ignored the headline of The Daily Express - in Not Just Sundaes a woman sat in front of a thousand piece jig saw - 

11.58

21 January 2014

Sainsburys, Paul's, Not Just Sundaes

Wareham

Outside Bates Gentlemen's Hatters ...

On my way to the Royal Academy, I passed shops which were like opulent marble palaces - behind sleek glass were displayed splendid shoes, worth a pasha's ransom, stylish tweed coats meant for the toned torso of a lean oligarch, splendid fedoras made for the shining heads of hedge fund managers -

I lingered for a while staring into the windows of Bates Gentlemen's Hatter - there before me was a flock of hats - I had a sudden desire to buy a landau trilby - 

I remembered the days when I'd worn a fedora - I'd worn the fedora when entering the silent rooms of The Institute of Historical Research - I got acquainted with a man who was researching one of the Zulu Wars - one day he showed me his great grandfather's gold full hunter - that dent was made by an assagai he said - 

I tore myself away from the window, and continued on my way - a hundred yards or so along Jermyn Street, I saw a homeless man, cocooned in his sleeping bag, his dreams like withered birds - 

The ghost of my fedora was perched upon my head - from time to time it whispered names to me - 

13.15

January 17 2014

Jermyn Street 

Running ...

Driving away from the gym, listening to some melancholy Chet Baker, I thought about the sensations I felt whilst running - 

Shameful or wicked thoughts left my mind - they blew away in coils of oily smoke - I gazed through the floor to ceiling window at the pale flawless sky - I could see the dark shapes of the Purbeck Hills - I remembered the wind sculpted trees on the chalk ridge, the bright grass - 

When Spring came, I thought, I would run along the ridgeway west of Abbotsbury, past the hill forts and tumuli - 

Running, I felt cleansed, as though I were swimming in sparkling water, pouring forth from a primeval spring - 

11.00

19 January 2014

Purbeck Sports Centre

Giovanni Battista Moroni at The Royal Academy ...

I gazed at each face for as long as I could - I thought that each courtier, each subtle cleric, each woman in velvet might speak to me - I would read their thoughts, I would l hear their voices - 

There was Don Gabriel de la Cuerva, Viceroy of Navarre, fifth Duke of Alberqueque, with his icy murderous stare - carved into the side of the marble plinth, upon which he rested his dagger clasping hand, were the words - aqui esto sim temor y de la muerta no he pivor - I am here without fear, and have no dread of death - 

Faustino Avogado, the knight with the wounded foot, fled to Ferrara following the assassination of Count Achille Brembato in 1565 - tumbling drunkenly into a well, Faustino drowned in its cool depths - a jaded lordling looked at me, with his hooded eyes and dark brown beard - 

The lady in black held a small book in her hands - her eyes were like icy stones - nearby was Giovanni Geralamo Albini, sitting like a cruel dwarf lord upon a wooden chair, with his full white beard and implacable brow - 

Fra Michele da Brescia was calm and composed - he had the face of a sinuous politician - I protected the church, with justice, and I brought peace - 

I scribbled notes in my book about each face that I saw - 

After a while, I had to leave the high ceilinged rooms of paintings - I pushed my way past courtly gaffers, blue stockings, a faun in a wheelchair - 

I met up with Jay in the Gallery Cafe - faces floated in the air around me - I heard the whisper of steel, I smelt smoke and incense - 

15.00

January 17 2015

The Royal Academy

London

The Waterloo train and The Theory of Everything ...

I'm on the Waterloo train, just leaving Christchurch - there are dark clouds in an icy sky - the fields are white with frost - 

I'm just about to read an article by Martin Rees about Stephen Hawking in The New Statesman - 

We saw The Theory of Everything in The Rex last night - I half expected the audience to applaud at the end of the film, as they did for The Kings Speech - 

I remember thinking, as I watched the cosmologist's tender distorted smile, how there are two worlds, the world of those whose are well, and the world of those who are ill - 

Later today, I hope to look at paintings by Giovanni Batista Moroni in the Royal Academy - I'll meet up with Jay, and we might talk about Iain Sinclair or the quiet wisdom of Montaigne - 

But I'm aware that at any moment I might stumble and fall, leaving the bright world - 

10.23

January 17 2014

The WaterlooTrain 

Between Christchurch and Southampton Airport Parkway

The world of the tip ...

This morning I threw some sodden cardboard into a yawning skip - I've made countless journeys to the tip, carrying varied loads in the boots of Peugeot estate cars - I've dumped pale shrivelled Christmas trees, shameless American pulps, off licenses of empty beer bottles, smouldering mags, hamster cages, unloved carpets, bundles of Fortean Times - 

Today, oldsters gingerly parked their Ford Corsas next to the skip for garden waste - the mobile phone mast zinged and crackled above my head - men in high vis yellow jackets emerged from a static caravan - a lorry reversed into the laager of skips - 

I stood upon a set of metal steps, leaning over the oubliette of cardboard - I felt a strange fascination for this edgeland, so near to gentle Wareham - 

Soon I would be counting swans upon the river, listening to women lunching in The Salt Pig - 

11.30

January 16 2014

Wareham Household Recycling Centre