Standing behind the glass. Specimen under glass. Under scrutiny. Exposing the naked self. We are not. Always a cover up. What shall we be or should have been? Removal of common sense. Scalpel severs. Removal of possessions. Chattels. Things that define who we are. Or don’t. Perhaps the self is never naked.
Sunday. Sunlight. Sleepy. Sullen. Somber. She asks if they can walk. An autumnal walk. But it is still warm. She had imagined perambulating in cold weather. A little frost welcomed. Now pick your root vegetables. Along paths and across dissecting streams. Leaves and whorls of wet earth. Return for lunch. A bowl of curried parsnip soup. A chunk of brown bread. Not a slice. A rock in hand. Substantial. They lie in bed and talk. Plan. Frivolous small talk. Let’s get up by ten and go. She wants it to be colder so she can wrap a scarf around her neck. He wishes they had a dog or a buggy with a baby in it to push along.
Oh you should go and have some fun as the road lessens…the black angel comes closer…ignore emotions and everything will be acceptable…then out of nothing then out of isolation then out of this fucking complexity I run to the hills and the sea I run to isolation…there’s been a removal…a removal of the senses…a “cover up” of who or what we are. Who are these people we should ignore. That we should be aware of.
September sunlight. Sleepy sex. Slumber snooze. Stay. Share. Small talk. Slow. Staid subject matter. She says let’s have breakfast in the garden. Or at least a cup of coffee. Why not tea? Sea. We want to see the sea. She dreamt about the hills. He dreamt about his ex and the coterie of surrounding friends and family. About boxes filled with his life story. Existence is a moveable feast. Feelings complicate matters but make situations more interesting. She hands him the little coffee cup. Nicaraguan beans. Strong. Sensation savoured. Sensual delight noted. So…