Are There Clouds in Thebes?

The movement of things.

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1. Clouds

The first time he met Anna he had met her many times before. So many times he had seen her die, and dress, brush her hair, sing in the morning – he could only have a sense of this since he had not yet been to those places in time.  You see, the machine would not just keep him alive for a long time but would throw him into different times regardless of the human chronological sequence. One moment it’s 1967 and the next 184_. But his memories were linear and followed the sequence of his experience.  Over the years of ‘travel’ with the machine he had seen patterns in history that no other historian, trapped by the confines of his or her presentness, would ever see, let alone decipher.  He was like a ball on the great endless pinball machine of time. Knocked here, knocked there, always coming back for another go.

Note to self: don’t explain so much reveal through narrative. 

The welfare state is a treasured party of our culture as to is the NHS.  NO OTHER country in the world can offer you what they can.  To do what the tabloids do and concentrate on those who do not deserve it seems to me rather Victorian, evoking the horrible and paternalistic notion of 'the deserving poor'. It is an arena where value judgements of that sort are dangerous and destructive. Where does one draw the parameters? To what extent are judgements like this based on sensibilities?  Clegg's dad - chairman of a bank, Cameron - related to at least two monarchs, same as Osbourne.  Somebody tell me when we decided again to allow the privileged to run our country. What the fuck do any of them know about: Not being able to pay rent; not being able to buy food, getting into debt at Christmas, having no future, access to opportunity restricted by the size of your wallet. It was a small town that appeared to be in some wood somewhere.  Suddenly men appeared with drums and I said that they were whirl-y-gigs and they banged the drums and the town was bigger.  There was at least a street.  I was cleaning a house occupied by an old lady who I seemed to know, who, when showing me something to clean the kitchen floor with, a kitchen that quickly turned into her garden and she turned into my Nan. There was a tree and everybody was gathered around it and a street, the old lady, a young guy and me going from door to door in this new place.  I think there may have been an old pub and a wise old man. Will be more detailed tomorrow.  There are fragment still stored in my brain but I can’t quite get them to form into picture or narrative.. They had Spem In Alium by Thomas Tallis playing. This kind of music had been an interest he had shared with Amelia.  He stood by the stereo and watched them for about ten seconds, the two happy lovers unaware of his presence, of the pitiful amount of time left they had left to live.  He wondered if they even had the remotest of ideas, some kind of feeling as they awoke this morning that it would be their last. The man was the first to see him.  His expression changed and he froze when he saw the silenced Makarov PM that D_____ raised and pointed at him. “Pardonnez –moi  Monsieur,” he tightened his grip slightly and curled his finger around the trigger. “Pour quoi?” What use would the answer have been to the man? D____ , keeping his eyes fixed on them both turned up the music on the small stereo close by him on his left.  So monastic and calming.  What was it about God’s music that could move an atheist so? 

He shot the man in the face as his employer had stipulated. 

There was that sound a silenced gun makes, the movies had it down pretty good, then just after the sound of the bullet and the skull connecting, his face re-arranged.  Then he fell, dead-heavy and sickening, onto the tiled floor. The music had not stopped. The face acquired that strange look of sudden sleep. life well, lived, no not I, under this everlasting sky (pause) choices. Hidden inside myself on a high and lonely shelf, I have lived un-good, a life not well lived. But saved. (pause).  Always waiting for a misty dark with the outline of a house. A house in the ground.  What ghosts live? Walk up and down?  Desires, strung by desires to myself, like a constellation of egos fighting one another, a black (pause) hole singularity of me. Listening to myself. Listening to a voice I hate..  Talking constantly in a sound I loathe.atheist so? He was reading Joyce, he would not finish the whole thing but this slice, the slice he was devouring right now was divine. As if the author had picked his words from the mind of gods and arranged them, like so, on a page, ready to act upon unsuspecting souls. Like so, just here and there, planted such and like and hereto etcetera, sinking slowly into the page, rhythm fantastic, semantique fantastique, and this slice that he was about to bite, Irish and epic and connected to the stars. ‘Love entangles me,’ he thought, ‘it entangles me and makes me drunk.’ Arms circling the dark air he sung it a few times in a self-made tune and pondered in between each monstrous burst. Fitting into dark matter. Alive and giddy with a love of something long adored. That some-other yawn of hell jinxed by time’s mother country - truth.

Which decade is it? Does it really matter? He decided that it did not. It most definitely did not matter as long as there were flowers and purple and literature. There were many items missing from this list of satisfaction, it was not comprehensive, but it was a spontaneous thought and thoughts of that kind must come out uncooked. What time and what place. The permutations over the years had been endless.

Among the deep rooted colours alongside the Nile in Egypt, a drunk captain and a job for a newspaper in a broken down stone hut, Paris and London and Geneva and Oslo and Basildon and Daventry. The massive and history heavy alongside the young and new built. This makes a life, even for others, not like him, this is the way – the magical alongside the ordinary.

She was magical and she made him tell her, lose everything in a single whisper, (then the guwaffmistt) this was his term for The Fall, because this is what it felt like and sounded like and tasted like (guwaffmistt) like roses dying and like wet bread, like seeing someone dead for no reason, like none of those, like the worst thing that is. Memories were an interesting new toy. He had always been able to recall but now the recollections were attached to emotion, to deep or light or smile making feeling. One that came to mind was a day in London, jokes and comfortable conversation as they went round in circles through Soho and gay bars and streets they had seen before. She had said walking would be preferable to standing in the armpits of somebody neither of them knew on a tube. 

and a little him-thing, not quite meeting the standard but stuck all the same here with the rest of them who know he is whatever it is when you are not complete in some way or other. Mingling sounds in the water of his time and suddenly he is in the bath.   For months now he has lost grip of matter and mattering. Here in the water, ripples waving the form of the plug into a jelly like stuttering shuddering thing. The clear sound of water on water as from the taps is and he is vexed and already a memory. You read about them and hear about them but never really plan He liked to think that his brand of psycho-active drug had nothing to do with insanity or losing grip on things or sinking down into it all moment one and two and three and four and so on and so on ad infinitum.  To subtract the. To initiate the.  Now dripping in the bathroom in the cold observing himself, his body, animated carcass, complicated fish with land legs, land lubber, the full length mirror, water like small marbles on his tarpaulin, posited as he is in two small ponds of said marbles following gravity and finally coalescing somewhat from the feet outwards, towards the rest of things and now his breathing in amongst the Bedlam.  I have seen a dog puke in a shitty winter morning, tied to itself and gagging for another tail.  He thinks, When the time runs out and the pockets are full of rocks and I don’t know how many rocks, stones, pebbles, whatever is sufficiently small, correctly sized to fit into the mouth of the pockets and I will not know how many, cannot quantify or calculate the very vehicle of my ignominious suicide, blind as the day I was torn yelping like a pup and the thinking stops. Silent synapses pause. The little more than slight air mthe ankles as well as the throat to speed it up but it seemed to slow it down.  The spurting died down to a gentle throb, like piss did when you were finishing.  Before he killed him the guy had wept and told him he was just about to have a child and please, please don’t.  He could see the guy’s predicament, really he could, but witnesses were a pain. He felt like the guy in the Elmore Leonard novel who never let witnesses live. He had killed a pig once with a friend, to eat obviously, but bleeding a person was different, more exhilarating, but slower, or perhaps it was just how this guy had bled, he was sure he had read the instructions right on the ioves fast enough to disturb his curtain, and he wonders, in a fraction of a fraction why. How did everything meeere from which he could stop it.  The cars behind him spat out bullets and roared, the road shook him; it undulated like the Sinai desert, the sun melted into the indifferent and beautiful sky.  Later, under the moon, nursing a bullet wound to the back of his shoulder, having managed to get away, he thought about Anna being born in Paris in 1922 and cried. The Dood didn’t know when he had been born or if indeed he ever had been.  He couldn’t find any evidence of the fact. It was as if he had been breathed into the world by someone or was just a thought that someone somewhere had and then he was alive. Bones, skin, blood, everything, all the right organs.  He had always been the same age, which appeared to be around 35 or so from the comparisons he had done with others.  As well as organs and the rest of the human stuff he had been created with who do not work hard gain.  This is not to naïvely assert that all bankers simply swim around in share options on a yacht, some undoubtedly work very hard; but to what end? To improve the economy? Perhaps.  But it is an economy that re-asserts and perpetuates inequality and physical poverty as well as mental poverty to most people (and remember they are people) that live in its Leviathan shadow.  Successive governments since 45 put too much power in the city and when the city makes money (which people forget it does, for every 10 mil bonus there is someone who has made 100 mil) but the problem with a system where profit is not controlled is that most of it finds its way back into the banking system far too early.  They could have built lives and communities up again but did they?  Of course not.  When you are in a rich universe the poor are invisible or just annoying or irrelevant to one’s everyday existence. Wealth is a paradigm; on the other side of the line are the   

 

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