The Church Of Me
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Kissing in the churchyard, I know a righteous woman

Tuesday, June 25, 2002
SHUT DOWN

I have nothing to say and everything to do.

This exercise is a failure. It has failed to transcend its limitations. It relives the pain rather than relieving it. Now I cannot breathe without being stabbed. The source of the pain is evident but it will cease to work its torture shortly. I am consoled by the thought that soon I shall be where she is.

I have spent so long living an origami life, folding myself into even less penetrable quarters that I am now self-suffocated.

Upon me will come not pain but annihilating sweetness.

I tried and I failed. Yet I do not feel like going home.

Those who have read will understand. Those who fail to understand will never have read this.

Music does not work; art does not work; people do not work; work does not work; breathing does not work.

Thrice he had now had his comeuppance. Yet of those who could have mocked and glorified in his ruin, some were now dead; others were too old or distant to care.

I was never very good at selling myself. This is where being bitter gets you.

Other consolations? ACHAB. Artists' materials. But no - Lorca's horseman, riding to certain death in Cordoba. How to squander a life.

No one else to blame. Everybody else. Life only makes sense when you can live it from your own perspective. When that perspective is repeatedly denied - the potential saviours, recognising their role in his drama, responding with the word "No" all too often - then it becomes, literally, hell.

No, Carlin, you can't have children. No, Carlin, we can't afford for you to have a career. No, Carlin, you cannot obtain love and security.

It was a mistake from the beginning. Everything imposed from the start. Robert Tucker with pretensions towards William Hazlitt.

So I exit: for none of this is helping, none of this is particularly healthy or useful to me, none of this is doing me any favours. A life which has served as no exemplar, not even as a bad one.

Duncan Thaw. Except I had more guts than he did and took the road south. It has kept me afloat for 20 years. But the conclusion, albeit delayed by a generation, must be the same. More adventures? Where is the purpose? Relocate and find the same obstructive common denominator - oneself?

So do I re-enter? I don't rule it out yet. But don't hold my breath.


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