New tactics
Bad poems might make for interesting writing. By bad I have TS Elliot’s configuration in mind – a work of fancy. The presence of the disease seems to inhibit the possibility of transcendence. The channel of inspiration is compromised. Keats leaves on a tree are painted on. I used to imagine I was drifting out to sea, just a little out of earshot, testing the eyesight of others, if they could discern whether I am waving or drowning Sometimes they would recognize my particular plight, they would let me know as they passed by in cars – laughing and jeering. Or sometimes they would be sensitive and anticipate my needs, noticing the sudden offers of baristas to carry my coffee. I met an old friend in Lidl, he tentatively touched my elbow as we went our separate ways. But recently that sea-side scenario has given way to a glitching screen that reveals the layers, the abundant skyscape full of cloud and colour blinks and disappears. Then the entire sea empties leaving a damp lunar landscape strewn with seaweed and flopping fish and the bits of pottery I used to collect at low tide. I am too afraid to turn around and look towards the beach behind me. I sense a shuttering darkness rush in behind me. A version of Eurydice…Will anyone be there if I dare to look around. Then the floor gives way, like the sensation when I get the plane, I can’t stop imagining the seat I’m in just falling through, I have to battle this thought while I shake violently, trying to settle the mind, I concentrate on the pilot’s flight deck controls. Grateful that its only eight minutes.
A new tactic:
