taxing time (18/April/18)

so many words over so many years and every day writing ever more and more, for who, who knows, for me, maybe, for the sake of it, well, make of it what you will I’m just here to rearrange the alphabet by throwing them at the fridge door and seeing what magnetises and what doesn’t and falls to the floor making yet more and more words to write and maybe bring to life… or death… for those allergic to death may wish to look away now lest it be too late….
… to think that one day everyone I know  will be dead… now I know what you’re thinking, there he goes again being a morbid sod… quite possibly, if all you see in being dead is morbid, I suppose it can’t be fun, but what do I know having not quite got there yet, touch wood… it’s true nonetheless, not to mention some I’ve known will already have died and I don’t even know it, stymying any chance I’ll ever by chance or design bump onto them ever again…… and by the way, I haven’t forgot the obvious that includes me in all this, and I’m still here, just, though I hope is saying so hasn’t jinxed me……
… imagine how many close shaves you had, maybe you haven’t, I have… and I’m not talking shaving hair, though I give my chin one of those every day, albeit not overly close… maybe I should grow some facial hair… don’t know if I’m brave enough or can be bothered… when I was younger and went unshaven I could, at a stretch, look rugged, but now being not younger when I go unshaven I simply look like a vagrant…. it can’t be healthy, can it?… all this pondering on not existing… it’s hard to imagine it but then again it’s bound to be hard imagining anything you can’t directly experience, if you know what I mean… in that, one can’t experience not being here for obvious reasons… you’re here and not not
… when I wonder, where are they now?, those I’ve known dead or still alive, I get mixed emotions… do I want to go back, back to those days?… after all some of ‘those days’ were horrendous and best consigned to the behind-me time… time, that other inevitable, alongside death and taxes…

© 2018 robert greig

blank pages (16/April/18)

the most enigmatic part of any book has to be the blank pages at the end, at the back of the book, hidden yet not, left anonymous, unused, as though waiting and still waiting, unrequited…… they seem surplus, superfluous and yet integral… a silence after sentences have been spoken, the pause, the breath to be taken, inhalation… exhalation… merging and submerging…… reflect…… balancing on the echoes of words read… from beginnings and unknowns through turns and twists that bring you here, just here, where the end is just beginning all over again… wiser… blank pages… a lithographic landscape lingers and escapes now running rife in your imagination… you can’t unread the book, only bear its consequences… blank pages aren’t to be squandered, skipped, ignored, it’s never an end until you’ve reached the end, they are an essential ingredient to the recipe…… there are more in some books than others but all nonetheless worth a moments attention… never frivolous, never wasted, never padding, instead they invite you beyond where you’ve just been, if you’re listening that is… blank pages engender curiousity for the curious, for the not-curious, well, let’s just say you haven’t looked hard enough………

© 2018 robert greig

letter to me (8/April/18)

think
think
think
write
think
think
think
write
nothing
write
nothing
there’s nothing to write about
sure there is, plenty, everything, awash, a playground of event and invention waiting and wanting to be written
think
think
think
write
what?
what’s my cue?
where’s the first line?
what’s not been said, being said, been written, being written, so much, too much, much ado about… nothing…
result: interia
a weight, the weight of the world… why should I worry about it when it doesn’t care about me even though it carries my weight on its shoulders… the shoulders of giants, one giant, the world… just another dot on the blurscape to squish me as quickly and easily as I just did an ant in the bathroom… it was probably wondering why it was there too, now it’ll never know…
guilt
guilt
the weight of the world
inertia
think
think
think
write
not enough or too much?… not enough AND too much at the same time
snatched breath, the curse of the human condition: thinking… except for the monotonous minds, the mumbling, moithering monotonous minds
react
retract
refract
write
what?
weightlessness… I know, I’ll write about weight-less-ness… something to write home about?… but I am home… letter to me: … … … …

© 2018 robert greig