Re: Rainwear Fun WithSomeone?
Posted: June 7th, 2016, 11:54 am
It is here I re-established a fact—a piece of the jigsaw. My boredom was nothing new; it had taken longer to realise that no one could get me out of it, no one was possessed of sufficient imagination to come up with a successful distraction. ‘What can I do?’—I can hear the tone of my voice though I never listened intently enough to that sound I made to realise it was not a question; everyone including me was tricked into thinking it was a question. We never recognized the annunciation of a profound solitude and that there was nothing to be done about it.
When the bus pulled away from the kerb and no one waved, behind the ghost of an erection lay desertion. There was no reliable connection in the immediacy of that sense. I could not, for instance, force my way back to the secret and shameful incomprehensible fascination I had experienced many years earlier happening to hear a radio play on the Third Programme. It was called The Dark Tower. It had elements which took me beyond the depression of Pilgrim’s Progress which, along with the tedium of Sunday school, dumped me in the Slough of Despond where I was beset by one long Sunday afternoon. One such blessing MacNeice play was ‘the tangles of Neaera’s hair’. Meretricious maybe but who cared! Fair to say I fell by the wayside. But it was the desolation that drew me. Actually a name-dropper, I was mistaken as precocious when I referred to the pleasures of To Damascus by Strindberg as I now do. I knew was for me (when I saw it at the Traverse Theatre in Edinburgh in 1974 (which corresponded with my one-man show there) but had not the application to wrestle with it.
I turned away after watching the bus go out of sight without any plan or prospect in my mind. (I better own up here and say that R was a camouflage; her real name was Jessica and I have to admit that pronouncing that word under my breath was enough to initiate tumescence which gave me to speculate upon the provenance of those three syllables). And as I started to walk home I could feel my impetus weaken and a familiar specious morality impose itself. What I realised then was that all my ostensible interests were, plausible enough, distractions.
When the bus pulled away from the kerb and no one waved, behind the ghost of an erection lay desertion. There was no reliable connection in the immediacy of that sense. I could not, for instance, force my way back to the secret and shameful incomprehensible fascination I had experienced many years earlier happening to hear a radio play on the Third Programme. It was called The Dark Tower. It had elements which took me beyond the depression of Pilgrim’s Progress which, along with the tedium of Sunday school, dumped me in the Slough of Despond where I was beset by one long Sunday afternoon. One such blessing MacNeice play was ‘the tangles of Neaera’s hair’. Meretricious maybe but who cared! Fair to say I fell by the wayside. But it was the desolation that drew me. Actually a name-dropper, I was mistaken as precocious when I referred to the pleasures of To Damascus by Strindberg as I now do. I knew was for me (when I saw it at the Traverse Theatre in Edinburgh in 1974 (which corresponded with my one-man show there) but had not the application to wrestle with it.
I turned away after watching the bus go out of sight without any plan or prospect in my mind. (I better own up here and say that R was a camouflage; her real name was Jessica and I have to admit that pronouncing that word under my breath was enough to initiate tumescence which gave me to speculate upon the provenance of those three syllables). And as I started to walk home I could feel my impetus weaken and a familiar specious morality impose itself. What I realised then was that all my ostensible interests were, plausible enough, distractions.