hobo (10/Feb/18)

torn between the read and the write do I read or do I write?……
bookmark and pen, bookmark and pen, I can’t do both, or I can but not simultaneously, except… I am, or am I?… is the hand quicker than the eye or the eye the faster getting there first?… have I already read what I write with my mind or write what I read as I write… can I write and not read what I wrote, truly write without thinking what to write but then again what would be the point of writing without thinking?… to tap into some inner voice, an inspace, an unconscious me buried somewhere deep within the within?… but how would I be sure when the writing is written, or should that be wrought, that it came from some self or a side of me hitherto lurking on the dark side of me?… once it’s out there it’s loose and vulnerable to the whims is his or hers or this or that interpretation, and once its unleashed it only has limited tool with which to work, themselves burdened with their own meanings and vulnerabilities…
… it may seem to you dear reader than I’m trying to grasp a point that seems increasingly nettle-like to the touch and getting nowhere fast… this unfolding of ink, swirls and curls, calligraphic clods of meaning and half-arsed sentiment tentatively held together by gaps, mere gaps, spaces that at once bind and separate, breathing the same air and kept apart like warring factions lest they infect or infest or even implicate one another… funny thing is, I don’t write the gaps, I think I’m just filling in blanks between them…. space is already there and I’m just coming along and cluttering it up with clutter…
they say the hand is quicker than the eye but if that was so then I’d have written a veritable tome in the time it’s taken me to scribble just these few sentences, thoughts I suppose you could call them… think, write, read, that’s the order of events isn’t it?… thinking is the thread, the dye imbued throughout; writing is the train I hop upon like a hobo, a stowaway dodging at every twist and turn the conductors attempts to lure me out; and reading, well, that’s the aftertaste whether bitter, sour, sweet, acrid, that spreads across the tongue invitingly or wincingly, to be acquired or not…
they say the hand is quicker than the eye but if it really was then I’d be a stranger to my own words… maybe I am… and yes dear reader, you’re right, I had no idea at the start of this where I was going and now I’ve got there have no idea how…… hope I haven’t completely wasted your time…

© 2018 robert greig

daily unavailable (13/Jan/18)

not coming out…

I don’t want to get up yet…

so I won’t…  didn’t… why should I….. yes I’m tired but it’s not that… I’m cosy, cossetted, enveloped in duvet, inside a Goldilocks zone…… it’s not about finding the right escape velocity required with which to extricate myself from it’s gravitational field it’s just I’m awake now and although I may doze again I don’t need to go back to sleep and miss these moments of bliss… I’ve no desire to take the next step and break the spell… I know what’s out there… the world, and it’s agoraphobically huge…… and my balance isn’t quite ready for that yet…… just a few or more minutes…… I could do with a cup of tea and it won’t make itself, and I’ve given the butler the day off… butler? what butler?… makes note: must hire a butler… makes another note: must make enough money to pay for a butler… makes a third note: do I really want a butler?……

I’m sure if I stay long enough I’ll still be here when the phone rings, as it does roughly the same almost but not quite every morning around 9am’ish, which is hours away yet… it’s always the same, I call it my “daily unavailable” as the caller display merely shows it as ‘UNAVAILABLE’, meaning it’s a withheld number… sneaky…… I’ve never yet discovered who or what is calling me at roughly the same time almost but not quite every day, I even miss it when it doesn’t …… six rings then gone just before my answerphone  kicks in, most uncanny… I wonder if it’s a very late wake-up call“hello, just called to tell you you’re awake”…… I’ve never answered, usually not making it to the phone in time… I reckon if someone doesn’t leave a message then it’s not important… but to be fair how would I know for sure if I don’t pick it up?…… but what then?… then I’d know?… do I want to know?……

my daily unavailable has become almost ritualised, even when it happens almost and not quite at 9am’ish but always I get a knowing vibe saying it’s my daily unavailable

… I don’t know how I know, I’m no psychic…… of course it’s likely just cold-calling… arrogant, presumptuous businesses using auto-diallers and armies of faceless call-centre slaves to harass random people with more bullshit than you can stir into a slurry pit, but, I’ve established a peculiar détente with my daily unavailable, one of curiouser and curiouser design……

© 2018 robert greig