Commissioning Editor, London: 6

Posted on December 24, 2009 in Uncategorized

So what shape do you think that a broken heart takes? In what sense can that phrase be construed? I’m serving breakfast in bed to Dorothy with a phrase running through my head that had no real beginning or end. This is just a cup of tea and a toast on a tray I’d found in the kitchen. And anyway, it was just a sense born out of a sense and continuing to run down into more of the same. I had the taste of yesterday’s beer on me, in my mouth. Sweet sweat breathed through the room, gently driven out by the wind from the open sash window. I looked down at the carpet. So, a phrase, a moment, an experience, a gesture. It’s timeless or it’s for a limited period, makes no difference, when the pleasure and the remembrance are both of the instantial variety. What use disturbing the dust – but we’ve been there already. We’ve been there too much. You already know what I’ll say every time I open my over-schooled mouth to capture another moment on the dead-eyed flypaper of casual, throwaway observation. I’ve recently begun to hate the dryness of a life lived that way.

She was gently breathing, a little hint of a snore, a gentle buzzing noise as she drew in her breath, sleeping curled, on her left side, her knees bunched up to her midriff. I could taste the beer and the false promises. Perfume faintly caught on a gust of wind. Because nothing I’d said last night had any particular meaning, only a general trend and an inertia towards an end. I had felt a desperate inertia from the start, and from the sight of her. It’s a desperate longing that creates such mythology out of these quotidian events.
It’s more a stately ship than a speedboat, this feeling. I’m sitting here on the bed and watching the duvet rise and fall. I can feel something that’s breaking the leaden surface of a lifetime’s cynicism but I have no way of categorising it or encapsulating it and keeping it safe from the grimy world outside. I cup the flowers in my hands but the wind is harsh. I have no vehicle, no prison for it and definitely no metaphor. It’s not even something I particularly have time for because it would take years to break through from where I am now. The Heraclitan flux of seeing your name in lights that time and this time. Dorothy took in a deep breath and threw out her right leg to stretch it.
So what shape do you think it takes? I walk out of the room, fully dressed, shoes on, and I open the front door, and keep walking into the street. Motion is freedom. That much I cling to.