Journal Entries
CHAPTER 2 AT NIGHT
Posted Feb 19, 2005
At night are things different. The holding out against sleep, consequent on imagination, is intense. Torches flicker on the hewn stone walls of the Pyramid tomb. Paintings inscribed take life. The sarcophagus empty yawns. Is this I the Pharaoh to be laid within one day, or a slave to be put to the sword at our King- god’s death, to persist in service in the after-world?
These contrapuntal thoughts, as darkness embalms me.
There are seven parts of the soul; so held the Egyptians. The last one to leave on death is the Ka.
Maybe I will not wake bodily tomorrow, no force in my arms to move the sheets winding round me. Heavy as bandages will they cling. My Ka, birdlike, will perch on the windowsill looking out, turn then the once, and look over me – Me!
Whether Towerblocks or Pylons beyond will not matter. The Ka is already free, honing in on the Sun’s eye. Here too is my freedom, my fall from high air, plunging into sleep.
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Chapter 1
Posted Feb 18, 2005
When I read a book, what I read insinuates itself into my life, floating out of dreams and daydreams. I live and breathe the atmosphere of the work, it taking command and control over me.
This can be awkward: for example, something like Norman Mailer’s ‘Ancient Evenings’ - whatever the day may be like, or the location in which I am found, I suck in the pristine clear blue air of the youth of Civilization in the Delta; the stone (or brick) of the buildings around gleaming with Pharaonic majesty. The pavements reflect like gold beneath, in Autumn time especially, and in whichever street is almost to be seen a Colossus made motive by the power of a string of Hebrew slaves. This even in the most nondescript thoroughfares of London, Belfast, Basildon – wherever, whenever - in daytime.
Night is a different matter…
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INTRODUCTORY
Posted Feb 17, 2005
Lying in bed until late morning or early afternoon is sheer delight. I try to do it as often as possible. The light comes through the window, dull or sunny, and plays on the objects in my bedroom. Semi beneath the covers in bed, I drift with the motes of dust, and send my soul wandering off in state of fuzzy consciousness.
Sometimes for an hour or so, I pick up a book, reading a few chapters into it. Then, mid morning, I drop it, and allow myself to be seduced into a resting sleep that will fall away about noon. Then I’ll think about getting up – one, two, three cigarettes worth of thought. Then a bit of a further think. Then movement - I’m out of bed, the rest of the day coiling to spring at me.
( Or, more preferred - like an old dog lolling toward me, looking for a tickle. )
All too infrequent such delight, sadlywise.
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