‘Day Fourteen’
Portsmouth – London – Portsmouth
23rd August 2013
Awake early before alarm
Sort OH tea and calmness
Washing preparing thinking
remember shoe laces
OH says casual
Out
bath
Drying
Ready
for Unexpected
Conversations
I Stand-up
To Face
the day
daunting
but in
a good way
Head to the railway station – its strange the familiar seems a few degrees unfamiliar – American dresses full of boats – I am moving as others would comment – as if in a dream – often they are realistically held through the day as objects come to life about me
I sit in not in usual seat on the train but the one I normally return in – reverse journey – why not – feels OK – emplaced an hour before the one I really need to get to be on time – on time? time surrounds me
I feel the embrace of her cloak as she thins towards the weekend
words come behind NC headphone defenses – think clearly – just be natural – that’s what they want to see – not a social mask held in your pocket
I don’t buy tea – unusual
The chair flows back repeatedly – it must be important – I will remember it – I have to say it – always important so I test and tweet
‘The chair often seems more alive than the person seated on it’
I write more
Strange day
Strange tides
Concealing
what’s been
Left at my feet
By moving
waters
Unthinkable
Treasures
Lifted to my sun
With both hands
So we are here most familiar station – last off train
I loiter in the bookshops near the station but then compelled to go an be early – maybe I can feel its a safe space given some open time.
I walk to the Young Vic – something Mum always chatted about here – i wish i could tell her as I walk with her over complex patterned pavement
admission: I am afraid – well more uncontained than scared – daunted maybe – they want to speak to me?
be casual – No social mask other than greetings and politeness – remember the Eye contact – safe – its what they want to see
1 pm – I enter – I catch her eye – no time to settle – hello’s and handshake – safe conversation – she was early – we wait for Peter over tales of school and colour – Mother is still behind me looking
then
he’s here
Peter Brook
before
I can breath
we leave
road crossing
we sit
we talk
I place my notebook to one side – it seems rude and unnessesary
questions
Astonishments
answers
revelations of self
Mum smiles in the shadows at talk of ‘Worths’ a Paris commonality – she stitched the Queen mothers dresses i say
then confessions about ‘Theatre’
naturalized ‘Memory palaces’ appearing
then suddenly ‘the chair’ – told where others are sensed as neutral despite who may have sat in them – naturally without prompt – i told you it was important – i knew touched before
can I help – yes
can I travel – yes
I recognize myself on slim occassions – pale green
am I me?
whilst he passes incogneto
as I talk – to busy to eat
coffee guilt
we leave
shake hands
I snatch a pavement photograph as I wonder did that happen? and head to the station passing the Old Vic
————- hiatus —————–
On the train home I touch the day – hands explore the nook and cranny or a new surface
I write while hurriedly watching the films laid out before me
Everything about me is pale
All Fallen into shadow
Remaining hidden
Terrible to touch in my minds eye
should I choose to do so
Calling through faint muslin
Astounding stories
No Wait
I will touch time for comfort
Wrap my cloak around her
surface crusted
with minute moments
Reading her beauty with
tactile words
Through worn
Familiar finger tips
As the feelings swell
Awaiting capture and release
