a wide range

a wide range near the cracked sunken graveyard where the homeless sleep under the tombs at night and the traffic swishes by men in proud flannel business suit and with fat jowl are going home in the luxury leatherette smell of their sepulchral volvo to pressure cooker suburbs or fatigue and rugged crowsfeet rubbings and heart attacks at midnight in the middle of the afternoon underneath the flags of all nations and near huge regency department stores faded to rainwash grey just like the big acidic crumbling blackened spaceneedle monument all over in backstreet and college digs geeks are grinning and handsome boys combing back hair like skydivers and skaters and punkers and motorbike boys and pale fat goth girls all surrendered near a flaky pane and a tiled roof wet with pissy rain or bespectacled n smooth haired prowling and yelling with their confréres in a wild college or clapping bigbosomed and eager in a basement dark deacon brodie venue for the international art fools spangling on a stage or gritting their mohican teeths over guitars in leather or rancid jean diving into oblivion thrusting arms of sweat and little alcohol rotten gangs shavenheaded in estates knifing prowled serial killers clenching fists with plots of shallow hole not forgetting the changeling ghosts of a thousand centuries who were drowned here or were strangled with their own rabbie burns cravats in a spectral candlelit drawingroom on a shiny cluedo table and came back in empty afterdinner mirrors at 8 o clock while dickens freaked and hid under the table with pearly moustache and tophat meanwhile big bostonian automobiles rumble past in the street and on hot days festival fools celebrate heroin in a gutter and common lothian disgrace underneath the old burned troy jerusalem miles of paved disgruntled sulking reek respectable downtown in a greenbush on a picture postcard......

Roses & Cream (Dream)

I was in America. On a long road there was a traffic jam. From one of the vehicles behind me came a song. It was an old-fashioned love song.
Songs were issuing from the door of an old-fashioned carriage behind me. I was connected to these songs.
A romantic song came forth, entitled "Roses & Cream".
I was accused of writing the song. I went back to the carriage and found out the name of the author. The author of the song was "Ghandi".
I admitted to authorship of the song. I approached a car and told the girls inside, "Apparently, i'm Ghandi". There was a girl there, smiling, in sunglasses. She responded and then drove off.

A girl came to ask me for my autograph. We were on a long street bordered by a low wall. The girl was blonde with big breasts behind a white garment. Her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. Her face was vacant and equivocal.
I asked her what did she want my autograph for. She said, "You wrote that beautiful song". I hesitatingly wrote it on a small piece of card she was carrying.

On Insomnia

When i say, "i suffer from insomnia" to someone, they always look for reasons. In diet or in habits or in mood, in obvious places, in well-surveyed areas. I rarely meet someone who can grasp that there is no cause for night-time restlessness.

The restlessness inhabits and infects one, it propels one to lurch up from the mattress, to cast the clothes on the floor, to fight and wrestle with the pillow.

Is it depression? No, it is something deeper and more vast than anything implied by that word. That word implies a restful, dark hollow, a valley that one can slowly traverse, never raising one's eyes to the horizon. My experience is rather a dreadful, punishing activeness that grips the body and poisons the mind, so that thoughts are not thought and let go, but regarded and over-regarded, monitored and over-monitored, in duplicate and triplicate to an unbearable infinity of infinities, each thought interrupted by shoals of others, flitting like dull, lumpen fish in a filthy ocean enfused with the mud of over-familiarity.

Because the inside of my brain is sickeningly over-familiar, because that interiority and that subjective pause, represented by the pre-sleep stage, are somehow appaling and overwhelming, because my limbs apparently still want to wrestle, my legs still want to twitch ceaselessly like those of a man shot in the belly...

Because of all this i cannot sleep.

Fragments:
The chick who went on a killing spree. By some pallisade or sidestreet, beneath a terrace.
As always happens on these occasions it seemed unreal. The goths were still joking, for a full minute after the shooting had already begun, not noting the import of it.
Sylvia the goth girl was halfway through a joke, and her cracked laugh bit down on it.
To realise as though half-seriously... the chick had already drawn a snubnose from a purse and began firing pointblank. Quick, like a scorpion sting. Manic, n we only came in here to shelter from the rain.
Car backfiring. Firework. Some prankster, bored, is letting off a firecracker.
Artschool. The chick who came into to look for folios along the shelves at the edges. Tall, brownhaired, somewhat geeky with protuberant front teeth, breasts stretching top.
Excitable. Can't move close to her.
Who was she?

(Below the streets of Edinburgh are a loathsome race of vampiric creatures- they live in hollowed-out vaults.)
Meeting Pete a small blondeish boy in a pastel suit when on an anxious night errand in the west end of Edinburgh-
An old school mate. Somehow i get enveigled with him and his mates, a bunch of hulking bouncers, fashion plates, lads....
Down we go into a cavern for a drink, a kind of a cellar.
Me rather anxious and wary. Before i even ask for my customary pint of lager one materialises before me- yellow pale stuff. Which i sip.
Well now down here in this cellar is no ordinary pub. For a start admittance is only permitted for the young and fashionable. A Fashion Theme pub! Where the young ladies, fashion students, cut out textiles with cloth-scissors, squares of houndstooth fabric, cotton reels, smell of finance and sniffishness. So i feel rather out of place.
Fashion-Pub, Fashion-Gathering, Fashion-Enclave underground!....
Dark like an Italian bistro.

I hope, then, that this my ontology, in being constantly self-referential is not turgid and grey, or on the other hand wishy-washy and overly indecisive. It is about what lies beyond cynicism and irony, what landscapes and vistas are on the other side.
It is about a stubborn (but flexbile and shifting) subjective eye, an eye open to the subtleties, magic and poetry of the everyday. The soul itself is sometimes, rigid, monotonous, recurrent, it dwells often on the same thoughts, but it also tires of these and seeks vivid contrasts, playing before its unchanging ardour like flames before water.

"When you go again that weary journey from negativity to affirmation, and find after the lows and highs stretches of interminable blank terrain, frightening in its loneliness, would anyone be blamed for feeling nauseous, for rejecting the phenomena as they come, or welcoming them hesitantly?
Maybe i have been guilty of excessive gloom. It's clear enough that you can purchase nothing concrete with a noble soul. But your own freedom can be an unperishable commodity, resisting all buffets and shocks, and can lead to insights jewel-like and sparkling in their preciousness, their small, giddy moments of splendour threatening to burn a hole in the monotony of being."