And now the sun is rising, something dies... And I can't begin to write or say anything. I hear the calling of the gulls in the sky invalidate me. Something is dying and along with it, I feel myself dying. I see the opalescence of the sky light up, but I can't see any worth in it. I feel with a slow realization the wretchedness of everything. And I feel deathly tired.
Writing is useless. Not a thing to be gained from it. No surcease of sorrow, no intimations, no companionships. Nothing. But there must be something, something somewhere, that is beautiful, pure, fresh, untainted. Somewhere there must be an incorruptible core, otherwise it's all in vain.
Nothing is ever communicated by me, not a word of my language is ever understood. In the long run it's wholly meaningless, utterly corruptible, non-translatable to other spheres of thought. Yet there must be something... There must be something...
There must be a golden state! I want it and would die for it in an instant. And maybe dying is what it takes. I must soar above it, I must leave it all behind. And I repeat, there must be something...
No. It is time to begin. I am utterly sleepy again, sicktired, sick of hearing all the noises I must hear, all the sights I must see. The winds of the old rail tracks are rattling in the trees, which is such a mournful sound, like the mournings or blessings of old ghosts.
No lamplight down here, which makes it scary in the middle of the night and all blasted and hollow.
This is the kind of old train tracks where drunks stumble and curse in the dark, or are just namelessly sorrowful with dreams of sleep, returning home. They might as well be blind among the trees and sharp stones. I know his thoughts because the old bum, the old drunk, the nameless ragged teenager of no future and alcohol, is me. None other than myself.
Here are some of the gloomiest, most inexpressible thoughts that can echo and slumber around in that brain: "I, suddenly, full of bright anguish, just suddenly passed the playing field beside the dark slopes and the empty windows of the school building at night, and I felt and saw in the window, something that pierced my heart in an old rage mingled with beatific peace, the sad papers and collages stuck up on walls with coloured papers and pieces of glitter, the cluttered-around empty stools inhabited by no-one, similar to that nursery or primary school which I myself attended and which are empty now too, as empty as me on this road, in the dark, sniffing, uplooking, never quite catching the flash of light or the smell of some ancient and beautiful scent in the musty backwheeling classrooms that connects me to the ghost..."
Tuesday, 23 October 2012
Monday, 1 October 2012
Meeting Joe King
We met Joe King outside the pub.
Robert engaged him in conversation.
What band ye in?
The Queers.
It's too smoky in there man, he said.
Lots of passive smoking, said I.
Huh?
Passive smoking.
So you guys from here in Edin boro?
No, from Fife.
How far's that from here?
Across the bridge.
(This clearly means nothing to him).
.....
"We took a walk around Edin boro.
It's nice".
Robert engaged him in conversation.
What band ye in?
The Queers.
It's too smoky in there man, he said.
Lots of passive smoking, said I.
Huh?
Passive smoking.
So you guys from here in Edin boro?
No, from Fife.
How far's that from here?
Across the bridge.
(This clearly means nothing to him).
.....
"We took a walk around Edin boro.
It's nice".
Fragments of Poetry
Perhaps one day she'll close her eyes, and fall,
Maybe her body will feed the earth.
Perhaps her yellow hair will scatter into corn,
Her blood become roses, her loves
A great tide of sunflowers. The earth will welcome her
Like a mother, suck her dry of desires and fears-
She'll be dispersed in the endless womb of the earth.
The earth has a magnetic pull, a woman to a woman,
Drawn by blood, drawn by weight, drawn by
Too many years of love, to succumb, and merge.
A new bloom grows in the ash- an edible bloom
Which has its own delicious dew- new tears of relief I bless it with.
A new dawn can come, smiling between grey apartment blocks,
Penetrating night. And a small word can come like a chuckle from your solar plexus
Like a child's word. A small flame, knowingly enkindled,
Unexpectedly, of its own brave accord.
Sunday, 30 September 2012
The Sketchbook 4
On Tuesday afternoon the tutor decided that the students must evaluate one another's work, standard procedure. They exchange sketchbooks. After looking through the sketchbook of the person next to you, you have a brief discussion, pointing out what you like and don't like. The student beside me was young, faintly amused by the procedure, but was also conscientious, and seemed to take the task semi-seriously. We sat perched on stools by the easels clustered end to end.
This is to get us into the habit of looking critically at one another's work, as employed also in the art schools. The theory is that one should learn from one's peers, that art should take place in an environment of peers, commenting, suggesting and intervening. Sometimes, though, the practice seems awkward or artificial, and one says the minimum, to avoid hurting the other or shaking him from his complacency or habits. False praise is no doubt given at times, also. Like everything imposed from outside, even the gentlest and most beneficial, they are sometimes experienced with discomfort or disinterest.
And I hand my sketchbook to the student beside me, an echo of the time I handed it over before. I see it once again, my gesture exactly the same, his receipt exactly the same. And now it seems to be his, for a few minutes, but his nonetheless, to judge and pore over. So, this is a gesture that I must repeat: To hand over that which is mine, which I jealously guard, to a stranger, for in this land everyone is a stranger, even my friend. He is only a provisional friend, till the time he reveals himself as a rival. My sketchbook in the hands of another: What if he misuses it, what if he marks it with rough, careless drawings, or subjects the work to rough, careless misunderstandings? He will see it with another eye, his own, different from mine: Like images seen reversed in a mirror, his eye will distort the drawings while they remain the same, and he will fail to understand them. I feel as though he is prising open an oyster to rudely grasp a pearl which is mine, his fingers settling around it. He will misunderstand.
Now Wednesday and life drawing: I am doing a drawing on a big A2 sheet with pastels. The students stand at their easels drawing. I have before me on my stool an open set of pastel crayons. The boy beside me asks if he can borrow a yellow pastel. I hand it over.
The slightly stunted yellow chalk is in his possession, he receives it with a murmur, preoccupied and careless. I say nothing. He adds highlights to his drawing, carelessly and roughly.
Meanwhile the model sits motionless and graceful against the backdrop of a white sheet.
I gave him the sketchbook and he returned it with drawings which I did not like. I did not like having it in his control, wrested away from me. He took a thing belonging to me, I gave it reluctantly. I give away my sketchbook, my chalk, that which is mine. When they touch my things I feel anxious, but cannot intervene; I am too polite, or I strive to be polite. I would like to snatch my object back, like small children do when they have not learned to be dishonest. Like the child, I do not really care about the object, whatever it may be; I merely want to wrench it from another's grasp because it is mine. This idea of "mine" is a triumph and an end in itself.
And in the end I will give all my possessions away, disperse them like seed: I don't care about them.
This is to get us into the habit of looking critically at one another's work, as employed also in the art schools. The theory is that one should learn from one's peers, that art should take place in an environment of peers, commenting, suggesting and intervening. Sometimes, though, the practice seems awkward or artificial, and one says the minimum, to avoid hurting the other or shaking him from his complacency or habits. False praise is no doubt given at times, also. Like everything imposed from outside, even the gentlest and most beneficial, they are sometimes experienced with discomfort or disinterest.
And I hand my sketchbook to the student beside me, an echo of the time I handed it over before. I see it once again, my gesture exactly the same, his receipt exactly the same. And now it seems to be his, for a few minutes, but his nonetheless, to judge and pore over. So, this is a gesture that I must repeat: To hand over that which is mine, which I jealously guard, to a stranger, for in this land everyone is a stranger, even my friend. He is only a provisional friend, till the time he reveals himself as a rival. My sketchbook in the hands of another: What if he misuses it, what if he marks it with rough, careless drawings, or subjects the work to rough, careless misunderstandings? He will see it with another eye, his own, different from mine: Like images seen reversed in a mirror, his eye will distort the drawings while they remain the same, and he will fail to understand them. I feel as though he is prising open an oyster to rudely grasp a pearl which is mine, his fingers settling around it. He will misunderstand.
Now Wednesday and life drawing: I am doing a drawing on a big A2 sheet with pastels. The students stand at their easels drawing. I have before me on my stool an open set of pastel crayons. The boy beside me asks if he can borrow a yellow pastel. I hand it over.
The slightly stunted yellow chalk is in his possession, he receives it with a murmur, preoccupied and careless. I say nothing. He adds highlights to his drawing, carelessly and roughly.
Meanwhile the model sits motionless and graceful against the backdrop of a white sheet.
I gave him the sketchbook and he returned it with drawings which I did not like. I did not like having it in his control, wrested away from me. He took a thing belonging to me, I gave it reluctantly. I give away my sketchbook, my chalk, that which is mine. When they touch my things I feel anxious, but cannot intervene; I am too polite, or I strive to be polite. I would like to snatch my object back, like small children do when they have not learned to be dishonest. Like the child, I do not really care about the object, whatever it may be; I merely want to wrench it from another's grasp because it is mine. This idea of "mine" is a triumph and an end in itself.
And in the end I will give all my possessions away, disperse them like seed: I don't care about them.
The Sketchbook 3
Back from a break, in which I went to the toilets, I find my sketchbook abandoned carelessly on a shelf at the side of the room. I pick it up and leaf through it: It is full of his drawings, or rather the marks he has made. With a light pencil. I am not thrilled.
I count the pages he has used, with annoyance: 12 in all, 12 large A3 pieces of clean white cartridge paper. A substantial portion of the book ruined, or will have to be thrown away. My favourite sketchbook, that I was keeping so pristine, so pure and professional. Contaminated by his careless scrawl. He had drawn disconsolately, as though half-asleep, turning pages as soon as a new idea, nebulous and dim, formed in his mind, to be in turn abandoned. Like automatic drawing.
Spurious pencil drawings with a loose line meandering over pages, as though the drawer's hand drifted by itself from page to page, formlessly dancing, allowing the line to wander delicately as the leaves turned. Also, scribbles and doodles, like would be done on a pad by the phone, while the drawer was immersed in a daydream or dull phonecall, or on a beermat or betting slip. Confined to a corner of the paper, or skulking at its lower edge, like rude and futile gestures.
On one page I find he had drawn a series of boxes, like comic panels, suggesting a sequence to be read from left to right. But depicted inside the little boxes are only what look like stylised depictions of clouds and mist, as might be shown in an old print, obscuring the edges and corners of ambiguous objects. Is this his dream, his vagueness, drawn lightly with a light pencil, did he in fact slumber as he drew? No, he draws like this because he is mysterious, because he is himself a figure from a dream. I find the vagueness contemptible, the cheap pencil, the loose, uncaring line, that commits to nothing. It disgusts me, as though he had marked the paper with dirt.
I count the pages he has used, with annoyance: 12 in all, 12 large A3 pieces of clean white cartridge paper. A substantial portion of the book ruined, or will have to be thrown away. My favourite sketchbook, that I was keeping so pristine, so pure and professional. Contaminated by his careless scrawl. He had drawn disconsolately, as though half-asleep, turning pages as soon as a new idea, nebulous and dim, formed in his mind, to be in turn abandoned. Like automatic drawing.
Spurious pencil drawings with a loose line meandering over pages, as though the drawer's hand drifted by itself from page to page, formlessly dancing, allowing the line to wander delicately as the leaves turned. Also, scribbles and doodles, like would be done on a pad by the phone, while the drawer was immersed in a daydream or dull phonecall, or on a beermat or betting slip. Confined to a corner of the paper, or skulking at its lower edge, like rude and futile gestures.
On one page I find he had drawn a series of boxes, like comic panels, suggesting a sequence to be read from left to right. But depicted inside the little boxes are only what look like stylised depictions of clouds and mist, as might be shown in an old print, obscuring the edges and corners of ambiguous objects. Is this his dream, his vagueness, drawn lightly with a light pencil, did he in fact slumber as he drew? No, he draws like this because he is mysterious, because he is himself a figure from a dream. I find the vagueness contemptible, the cheap pencil, the loose, uncaring line, that commits to nothing. It disgusts me, as though he had marked the paper with dirt.
The Sketchbook 2
Someone told me the guy is just out of prison. I am afraid of him. His large, intimidating mouth, powerful and uncaring, brooding. His eyes focused on things beyond or above me, never seeing me. What was he in jail for?
While there, no doubt, he developed an interest in art. There was some room, there was an easel, there were paints. Then at night he went back to the room where he was confined and the lights were put out. This, his cell, became his kingdom: There he drew and painted. On release, he said in broad tongue he wanted to continue: And so he came here. He is large and moody, a past life of sorrow and difficulty.
The middle class is unknown to him, and exists on a different plane. The working class is unknown to them. And yet he sits in their midst. In dole offices I had seen his type, waiting to be seen, conversing amongst themselves loudly: Used to it. There too I was afraid of him. He lounges relaxed in a big chair, such as is used by staff, large and loutish, his scarred and tatooed hands open the sketchbook and find a blank page. His feet in white trainers. His short glossy hair, somehow intimidating. Legs open, confident. Lips pouting.
I despise and am jealous of the middle classes. I despise and am disgusted by the working classes. I am working class. I hate them all secretly and timidly, never allowing it to show. I pretend instead that I have found my place in the hierarchy. But my eyes see too much, they see it all and I recognise myself. I compare myself to them. I want to be middle class, and yet I hate them. I know I am working class, and yet I hate them.
Can I be a republic of one? No; I am working class, first, second and last.
While there, no doubt, he developed an interest in art. There was some room, there was an easel, there were paints. Then at night he went back to the room where he was confined and the lights were put out. This, his cell, became his kingdom: There he drew and painted. On release, he said in broad tongue he wanted to continue: And so he came here. He is large and moody, a past life of sorrow and difficulty.
The middle class is unknown to him, and exists on a different plane. The working class is unknown to them. And yet he sits in their midst. In dole offices I had seen his type, waiting to be seen, conversing amongst themselves loudly: Used to it. There too I was afraid of him. He lounges relaxed in a big chair, such as is used by staff, large and loutish, his scarred and tatooed hands open the sketchbook and find a blank page. His feet in white trainers. His short glossy hair, somehow intimidating. Legs open, confident. Lips pouting.
I despise and am jealous of the middle classes. I despise and am disgusted by the working classes. I am working class. I hate them all secretly and timidly, never allowing it to show. I pretend instead that I have found my place in the hierarchy. But my eyes see too much, they see it all and I recognise myself. I compare myself to them. I want to be middle class, and yet I hate them. I know I am working class, and yet I hate them.
Can I be a republic of one? No; I am working class, first, second and last.
The Sketchbook 1
I was an art student and every day in the week I would get up and go to the bus station. From there I would get on a bus that took me to the city, taking with me a bag containing art materials: Pens, ink, brushes and paints. I would walk to a building and ascend the stairs to a room where other art students had gathered, this being the requisite place for our gathering. The room was large and bright with large windows, and contained the following: Drawing boards, easels, and stools, with space for the large drawing boards in shelves. The easels would be gathered in a corner at the end of the class.
But one day a new guy appeared in this room which was used for life drawing, a late enroller on the course it seemed.
He approaches me carelessly, his eyes averted, as though uninterested in me, dismissive of me, his mind on other things. He is not looking at me. If I knew him I would think he disliked me. He seems aggressive and tough, not like an art student, who are sensitive, effeminate, classy; from middle class homes and with refined airs. And he says have you got a spare page in your sketchbook, mouth loose and hanging, eyes not looking at me, as though I were unworthy to look at. He is a ned.
My prize beloved sketchbook, big and plush-black, A3, which is a good size, substantial. Got it with other art materials given free in a pack at the start of the semester. We descended the stairs to a room and, on signing a piece of paper, were given the packs containing drawing implements, sketchbooks, and a small watercolour set. But this is my favourite sketchbook, I'm proud of how professional it looks, I lug it around with me. My pride: For the black cover, the glossy frontsheet, the sturdy cartridge paper.
I am reluctant to hand it to him but do so out of an effort to be polite, to be thought of as generous, gracious. What would these other students do? I emulate them. They have grace, coolness, looks, money. From middle class homes. They have not had to strive, sweat and suffer. They laugh softly and easily, their loves come easily and they mix with one another easily. Sure, I say, handing it to him. It's one page. I can always tear it out.
But one day a new guy appeared in this room which was used for life drawing, a late enroller on the course it seemed.
He approaches me carelessly, his eyes averted, as though uninterested in me, dismissive of me, his mind on other things. He is not looking at me. If I knew him I would think he disliked me. He seems aggressive and tough, not like an art student, who are sensitive, effeminate, classy; from middle class homes and with refined airs. And he says have you got a spare page in your sketchbook, mouth loose and hanging, eyes not looking at me, as though I were unworthy to look at. He is a ned.
My prize beloved sketchbook, big and plush-black, A3, which is a good size, substantial. Got it with other art materials given free in a pack at the start of the semester. We descended the stairs to a room and, on signing a piece of paper, were given the packs containing drawing implements, sketchbooks, and a small watercolour set. But this is my favourite sketchbook, I'm proud of how professional it looks, I lug it around with me. My pride: For the black cover, the glossy frontsheet, the sturdy cartridge paper.
I am reluctant to hand it to him but do so out of an effort to be polite, to be thought of as generous, gracious. What would these other students do? I emulate them. They have grace, coolness, looks, money. From middle class homes. They have not had to strive, sweat and suffer. They laugh softly and easily, their loves come easily and they mix with one another easily. Sure, I say, handing it to him. It's one page. I can always tear it out.
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