I almost know. I'm back into the writing. I already do that. I'm doing it with a stranger. I always imagined. I am a writer. I am happy to inform you. I am in a Russian bar in New York City. I am mastered. I am more disturbed by it. I am obliging myself to dredge things up. I am overcome by it. I am primed. I am ready again after all of these years. I am still mannered by the medium. I am writing on behalf of the Customer Service department. I become Virginia Woolf. I begin a sequence. I begin to tell a grand daughter's story. I believe.
She asked me if I'd like to wear sunglasses. She believes that her feeling is returned. She misinterprets his interest in her. She feels mortality on her skin. She had a pair for that very purpose. She indicated. She laughed and made a series of jokes at an equivalent level. She may be conflicted about her job and role. She may be queerly shaped. She may like the trappings of fashion. She refloats my love boat. She stares through us to another time. She wanted to know (routine question).
I bought some tonight. I can accept that we are living in this exchange the refusal of communication. I can offer you a special discount. I can only marvel. I can recall the kind of silence. I can see Monk sitting there. I can't help admiring the transient geometry. I cannot express this. I cannot hold this. I changed from one system of self-regard to the other. I could remain polite. I couldn't help but reflect on things. I couldn't keep my eyes open. I dare you to describe it. I don't know what to call this story. I don't look like a pacemaker wearer. I don't want to make words that are trapped by accidents of identity. I dunno. I eat Japanese take out. I email you 300 words. I even forget if it was this computer.
He defers and condemns. He doesn't mind lethal injections. He gasbags. He had another job to do. He had experience of speed. He has removed the flesh and blood. He hates yoga. He is reasonable. He has strong opinions. He knows about gallows. He likes electric chairs. He likes gas. He looked at me. He's convinced that these two characteristics are compatible. He turns on the television. He understands the guillotine. He died. He's sleeping.
I fall asleep without figuring it out. I feel life left behind. I feel suddenly attached. I forget when I keyed in the passages. I forget when or where. I found a bit. I found a cheery mask for social occasions. I gave over. I get the count at 106. I got caught up. I guess. I had my teeth cleaned recently. I had to do something. I have no idea. I have ordained you to be a mirror amongst them. I heard him conspire about something. I hope. I imagine the telemetry. I just checked the sentmail. I just watched another X Files video.
They are almost as good as Tomahawk cruise missiles. They are mobile homes. They are my accidental inheritance. They became the tangible analogue. They could never be recanted. They encode a weird suburban knowledge. They have to let us wind down. They keep coming in. They'll plead guilty. They know about home. They laugh at Tony Benn. They line the canals. They made no effort to wave. They make home for me. They miss their mark. They pop from ships like jack-in-the-box. They pulled up at the bottom of his driveway. They take me back to home. They won't be with us for long. They've grown used to it. They'd better not wreck our Olympics.
I keep buying the morning and evening editions. I kept Victor because he displayed more sense. I know when Perec's writing became part of me. I learn so much from Canetti. I like your abstractions. I log on to check the weather over Sydney. I look to you to modulate. I looked at the dog. I lost sight of the truck. I love it. I mean it just doesn't bear thinking about. I might have asked. I mistreat my sources. I open a new document. I pack my Walter Benjamin. I pause and take stock. I pick one up and read it. I picture them snaking along the crests of the dunes. I re-read the story. I reckon. I know.
We are at war. We are dangerous. We are most of us sleepy. We are pushed roughly onto these buses. We are the ones. We are told. We are veterans. We become junkies of the wait. We descend. We feel the need. We know the injustice of it all got to you. We know what you're up to! We know you cared. We love our baby sitters. We love our dentists. We may be refusing communication yet are corresponding in other ways. We passengers stare at the video projection screen. We understand about parental abandonment. We'll have to wait and see. We're also getting a bit of that. We finish with 'Crepuscule with Nellie'.
I regret to inform you. I remember. I said. I scroll. I scroll through my diary. I scroll through the details. I search the heard disc for notes I think I filed somewhere. I see your vision. I shan't have lied. I sit for hours. I slip out quietly. I still feel the pain. I suppose it's a stupid story. I suppose it's about inverse vertigo. I take stock. I think. I think I can feel the enamel. I think immediately of my niece and her Barbies. I think instead of those little houses in Amsterdam. I think of my father. I think of Sussex in five hundred years to come. I think the book will be brilliant. I think this is why waiting brings out the worst in people.
You asked for another 48 hours. You can hear the wind screaming. You can only guess at what it will be like. You come to and there's so much pain. You display another attitude. You don't interpret. You envisage the transformation. You half-flush. You hear this in every Balmain hotel. You lost time. You move. You must include proof of age with your purchase order. You're all immoral. You reply with clarity rather than literature. You see. You see it every day. You tell yourself. You too are volatile. You turn some of those corners. You are a source. Your call has been placed in a queue.
I thought briefly of the possibility. I thought (liked to think) that once the words were out there. I thought the lignocaine had numbed everything. I took my time. I try to keep dancing. I underlined a sentence and noted the following information in the margin. I wanna hold your hand. I want to do my stuff and project into a future perfect. I want to make words. I was attached. I was just getting to know and just starting to love. I was living with abstract painters. I was squinting into the dental lamp. I was there.
My computer's gone down. My current favourite. My face now pink. My hard drive is being low-level formatted as I write. My impulse. My Jewish forebears. My libido. My literary heritage. My Menzies epigraph was from Ovid's Metamorphoses. My only knowledge. My remnant feeling is that work remains precarious. My server is down. My subsequent liberation. My tongue felt like someone else's. My whole library was in that truck.
I was thinking. I wasn't used to such honesty. I went at the obstacles without fear. I went in to pay homage to something. I will make a little figure for your satisfaction. I wish that I could push a button and talk in the past and not the present tense. I wish that it were something easy like being lonely. I won the toss and kicked off. I wonder who. I write because I have to. I wrote it in the margin. I'd lost notebooks before and cursed my absent mindedness. I'll find it. I'll leave you behind. I'll use my eyelids. I'm at LAX airport in Los Angeles the day before Xmas.
His stupid story about capitalism. Her body labouring. His hand hovered at the base of her back. His love. Her boyfriend pimp told no one for nearly a week that she was missing her peers. His real conditions of life and relations of his kind.
I'm coming to hate gravity. I'm convinced. I'm dancing. I'm distracting myself. I'm feeling blokey. I'm gathering up some of my pleasures to keep going with. I'm getting the big wind-up now from the producer. I'm gripping the armrests. I'm just not convinced. I'm quoting. I'm reading. I'm reliably told. I'm right into Speed Factory. I'm sure there's a record. I'm taking off for a sprint. I'm unpoetic. I'm with you on pain. I'm wondering what word or proto-word your duralex fragment stood in for. I'm working up a sweat lugging this patrimony.