Guilt
In Geology episodic refers to events that occur or have occurred periodically. Length of the period may be even thousands or millions of years.
Legendary
Of course, he was a wonderful man. Then, I suppose they all were. It was a very long time I ago that I last had a man about, you know. They never stuck around, or I never put up with them. Either way, either way the papers had their fun, didn't they? I was a serial man-breaker, leaving them all behind.
Why didn't you marry any of them?
Oh, I didn't really have time. Not then, anyway, not with matches and publicity and everything. And later I didn't have the time, I was doing all those ad campaigns, you know? The ones for watches, wearing things I'd never buy. I think I was expected to marry them, everybody asked. But they would be just as keen to see me divorce them, too. No, I wouldn't do all that. My bloody manager said weddings were good for publicity, get me doing interviews and Hello shoots, no thanks. I would have thought sportsmen had different rules.
Sportswomen, too?
[Pause]
But you did marry in the end, didn't you? More recently?
Oh, Lawrence. Yes, we met after I retired, after I moved here. He passed away a few years ago.
I'm sorry to hear that.
I quite like it now he's gone, actually. I'm used to being alone, see? I like it better that way. I don't find all ... [inaudible] ...
Why didn't you marry any of them?
Oh, I didn't really have time. Not then, anyway, not with matches and publicity and everything. And later I didn't have the time, I was doing all those ad campaigns, you know? The ones for watches, wearing things I'd never buy. I think I was expected to marry them, everybody asked. But they would be just as keen to see me divorce them, too. No, I wouldn't do all that. My bloody manager said weddings were good for publicity, get me doing interviews and Hello shoots, no thanks. I would have thought sportsmen had different rules.
Sportswomen, too?
[Pause]
But you did marry in the end, didn't you? More recently?
Oh, Lawrence. Yes, we met after I retired, after I moved here. He passed away a few years ago.
I'm sorry to hear that.
I quite like it now he's gone, actually. I'm used to being alone, see? I like it better that way. I don't find all ... [inaudible] ...
Draught
As she rounded the crest of the hill the first tentative fingers of dawn were tearing through the clouds. He was like orchestras, she decided, to her solo violin. He was like warm, fresh bread to her mouthful of sweetness.
There was a delicious pleasure in her spine, as the chill wind swept her coat aside and prickled her skin into goosebumps.
There was a delicious pleasure in her spine, as the chill wind swept her coat aside and prickled her skin into goosebumps.
Unlikely
I've never been hit in the face before. Being a short white girl I guess that's not surprising, but the fight surprised me.
It started when we cycled from the bar to the party. We stopped to let people catch up and decide our route, but some cock thought he'd call us hippies in front of the drunkest of our number. Suddenly this guy is throwing punches over my head at the guy behind me. Suddenly my head hits the tarmac and I'm watching this bizarre scene upside-down until a foot meets my thigh. But my friend is in the line of this cokehead's punches, so unwisely I rejoin the fracas.
All I can remember is thinking this guy must be high, my hands are pretty tightly wrapped in his hair and he's still going, he's hit my head a few times on the way to his perceived threat.
The police van arrives, and half a dozen people are in handcuffs. I see blood smeared on the back of my hand, and wonder where I am bleeding from. I worry about the half-bottle of wine in my bag, whether this will make things more difficult for me. I am very nearly sober, and this is not fun.
A stout policewoman tries to get my details, while I ask her questions about the man in handcuffs. She takes my phone number and hands me a tissue, but I still don't know where the blood is coming from. I suddenly hope it's mine. People are crying, people are leaving the scene for home.
Later, walking back because I'm shaking too hard to cycle, the police phone me. My friend answers and tells them where to stick it, because I'm in a complete state and she doesn't want me to give a statement. They tell me they will come to my house if I don't co-operate, take me into custody. Nobody else believes them, so neither do I.
Eventually the police hang up on me, because I am talking too much.
It started when we cycled from the bar to the party. We stopped to let people catch up and decide our route, but some cock thought he'd call us hippies in front of the drunkest of our number. Suddenly this guy is throwing punches over my head at the guy behind me. Suddenly my head hits the tarmac and I'm watching this bizarre scene upside-down until a foot meets my thigh. But my friend is in the line of this cokehead's punches, so unwisely I rejoin the fracas.
All I can remember is thinking this guy must be high, my hands are pretty tightly wrapped in his hair and he's still going, he's hit my head a few times on the way to his perceived threat.
The police van arrives, and half a dozen people are in handcuffs. I see blood smeared on the back of my hand, and wonder where I am bleeding from. I worry about the half-bottle of wine in my bag, whether this will make things more difficult for me. I am very nearly sober, and this is not fun.
A stout policewoman tries to get my details, while I ask her questions about the man in handcuffs. She takes my phone number and hands me a tissue, but I still don't know where the blood is coming from. I suddenly hope it's mine. People are crying, people are leaving the scene for home.
Later, walking back because I'm shaking too hard to cycle, the police phone me. My friend answers and tells them where to stick it, because I'm in a complete state and she doesn't want me to give a statement. They tell me they will come to my house if I don't co-operate, take me into custody. Nobody else believes them, so neither do I.
Eventually the police hang up on me, because I am talking too much.
Passage
She decides to begin this journey nameless, and then ponders the difference between being nameless and anonymous. She sticks with nameless because she wants to be remembered.
At the moment she's occupying an aisle seat on a cross country train, impatiently. Delays, language barriers, lost tickets and thieves. It all sets her on edge. She has no suitcase but a huge handbag filled to bursting. Not necessarily easier or more convenient, she decides it's a challenge.
Besides, she likes presenting a puzzle to the other inhabitants of the carriage. Sitting on a rush-hour train with her long hair loose and messy, her long legs tucked neatly under the seat, almost hiding her bright silver sandals and tanned toes. She likes to think they will wonder where she is going, or why. She has a cocktail dress but no makeup on, wide eyes and no tinny headphones to hide between.
To pass time she flirts with a shy-looking office clerk, blowing a kiss to the girl as she leaves the train in the suburbs. A little later, a man with a guitar case sits next to her and strikes up conversation. He's a musician. He thinks she is beautiful, he wonders if he could write a song for her. Not right here, she hopes. Play me something nobody else here will recognise, she says. Play me your favourite. So he does, right there in the carriage, and she doesn't know the song. She watches his face as he sings and decides that he is beautiful.
At the moment she's occupying an aisle seat on a cross country train, impatiently. Delays, language barriers, lost tickets and thieves. It all sets her on edge. She has no suitcase but a huge handbag filled to bursting. Not necessarily easier or more convenient, she decides it's a challenge.
Besides, she likes presenting a puzzle to the other inhabitants of the carriage. Sitting on a rush-hour train with her long hair loose and messy, her long legs tucked neatly under the seat, almost hiding her bright silver sandals and tanned toes. She likes to think they will wonder where she is going, or why. She has a cocktail dress but no makeup on, wide eyes and no tinny headphones to hide between.
To pass time she flirts with a shy-looking office clerk, blowing a kiss to the girl as she leaves the train in the suburbs. A little later, a man with a guitar case sits next to her and strikes up conversation. He's a musician. He thinks she is beautiful, he wonders if he could write a song for her. Not right here, she hopes. Play me something nobody else here will recognise, she says. Play me your favourite. So he does, right there in the carriage, and she doesn't know the song. She watches his face as he sings and decides that he is beautiful.
Discovered
Gradually she became obsessed. Everyone could see it, she was sure. Ten minutes before leaving the house she would take up her post: hair, makeup, tug the sleeves of her shirt into place. That 3/4 profile could kill.
Unable to Sleep and Scornful of Temazepam
Crackling, stiff. Starched still and devoid of moisture. I wonder if this is what it feels like to be burned alive, that initial crisping of the flesh. The first transition from hot to cooked. So inelastic, movements of my arms and even my legs have repercussions. I visualise the small of my back like tarmac, folding reluctantly in the waves of an earthquake.
Passage
Unexpectedly her forehead touches the window as the train lurches sideways. A single bead of sweat remains on the glass, true to the sticky heat and apprehension.
The train must be moving at walking pace, so slow to gather speed. She wills it to gather speed. A child's face at the window of a house, a run-down play park, young mothers with cigarettes, newsagents, hedgerows, dogs, sun. Finally blurred together, the landscape is safe to watch. Unsettled without knowing why, she scratches the skin of her thighs with her fingernails. Wonders if opening a window will help in the slightest.
The train must be moving at walking pace, so slow to gather speed. She wills it to gather speed. A child's face at the window of a house, a run-down play park, young mothers with cigarettes, newsagents, hedgerows, dogs, sun. Finally blurred together, the landscape is safe to watch. Unsettled without knowing why, she scratches the skin of her thighs with her fingernails. Wonders if opening a window will help in the slightest.
The grief was sudden and terrible to live with. Her love being unrequited, it was kept a secret. She sobbed in daylit corners and under dark duvets, often dry-eyed.
Conversely, it was the fierce shock that stayed with her. Shock that she'd loved him so hopelessly for so long or that he would never apologise for what he'd done, she couldn't yet tell.
She was waiting for anger, because she knew it to be cleansing.
Conversely, it was the fierce shock that stayed with her. Shock that she'd loved him so hopelessly for so long or that he would never apologise for what he'd done, she couldn't yet tell.
She was waiting for anger, because she knew it to be cleansing.
Get a girlfriend
Blonde, thin, delicate somehow. Met early on, at a gig where we reminisced. And though she was charming and her hair was soft I knew she was only being polite.
-
I stared discreetly for weeks until we were thrown together. Loud, dirty jokes and barked laughter. I wanted her with an immediacy that I dream of.
-
Propositioned, almost. Comparing outfits, the joy of halloween. She's a pirate wench, laughs at my jokes and orders rum. She's a mess and I know it, but as usual I can't keep away.
-
Not pretty, but statuesque. More intimidating than I've been known to pursue. When I got closer I realised it's only herself she's scared of.
-
She knows about my bruises, my vices and downfalls, my ever-changing faults. We are similar, and damaged in different ways. We drink together now.
Blonde, thin, delicate somehow. Met early on, at a gig where we reminisced. And though she was charming and her hair was soft I knew she was only being polite.
-
I stared discreetly for weeks until we were thrown together. Loud, dirty jokes and barked laughter. I wanted her with an immediacy that I dream of.
-
Propositioned, almost. Comparing outfits, the joy of halloween. She's a pirate wench, laughs at my jokes and orders rum. She's a mess and I know it, but as usual I can't keep away.
-
Not pretty, but statuesque. More intimidating than I've been known to pursue. When I got closer I realised it's only herself she's scared of.
-
She knows about my bruises, my vices and downfalls, my ever-changing faults. We are similar, and damaged in different ways. We drink together now.
Eight weeks.
I cycled around Berlin but not Amsterdam. I got food poisoning on opposite ends of the continent (lesson 1: don't eat salad abroad.) I had my towel and sunglasses stolen. I kissed a Polish girl (lesson 2: when in doubt, ask a native) and she tasted of my Marlboros. I saw the Berlin Love Parade and an orchestra, or two. I climbed a mountain (a cliff) and splashed my feet in the Danube. I didn't get sunburn (lesson 3: factor 30). My hair has grown, my nails have been bitten. I have none of the books I left home with, and the same pair of jeans.
Nothing was broken, no-one was hurt.
I cycled around Berlin but not Amsterdam. I got food poisoning on opposite ends of the continent (lesson 1: don't eat salad abroad.) I had my towel and sunglasses stolen. I kissed a Polish girl (lesson 2: when in doubt, ask a native) and she tasted of my Marlboros. I saw the Berlin Love Parade and an orchestra, or two. I climbed a mountain (a cliff) and splashed my feet in the Danube. I didn't get sunburn (lesson 3: factor 30). My hair has grown, my nails have been bitten. I have none of the books I left home with, and the same pair of jeans.
Nothing was broken, no-one was hurt.
passage
"I kiss her tenderly on the forehead. Gently I unlock her arms. The others are going to take her again. I can't bear seeing that. I must go. I must run. For a full minute, however, I stand and look at her. Her eyes seem to have grown enormous. Two great round eyes, full and black as the night, staring at me uncomprehendingly. No maniac can look that way. No idiot can look that way. Only an angel or a saint."
Henry Miller, Black Spring
"The sea smelled like a sail whose billows had caught up water, salt and a cold sun. It had a simple smell, the sea, but at the same time it smelled immense and unique... Nothing pleased him more than the image of himself high up in the crow's nest of the foremost mast of a ship, gliding on through the endless smell of the sea - which really was no smell, but a breath, an exhalation of a breath, the end of all smells - dissolving with pleasure in that breath."
Patrick Suskind, Perfume
"She pulled her by the hands and her feet crashed to the floor. Pam stood up, the shock of her feet transmitted to her blank eyes, and pushing her upstairs in front of her, Sidonie rested her fist in the small of the back she had not touched for so long. She slammed the kitchen door and pulled her into her arms and kissed her hard on the mouth, pressing her against herself until she heard her shoulders crack. Then the woman she had been going to kill, for whom her hand groped towards the knife-and-fork drawer, began to kiss her back, and this time tears fell from her eyes and poured down her face in a stream of incoherence and lipstick... She tried to kid herself she would love her forever."
Shena Mackay, Music Upstairs
Henry Miller, Black Spring
"The sea smelled like a sail whose billows had caught up water, salt and a cold sun. It had a simple smell, the sea, but at the same time it smelled immense and unique... Nothing pleased him more than the image of himself high up in the crow's nest of the foremost mast of a ship, gliding on through the endless smell of the sea - which really was no smell, but a breath, an exhalation of a breath, the end of all smells - dissolving with pleasure in that breath."
Patrick Suskind, Perfume
"She pulled her by the hands and her feet crashed to the floor. Pam stood up, the shock of her feet transmitted to her blank eyes, and pushing her upstairs in front of her, Sidonie rested her fist in the small of the back she had not touched for so long. She slammed the kitchen door and pulled her into her arms and kissed her hard on the mouth, pressing her against herself until she heard her shoulders crack. Then the woman she had been going to kill, for whom her hand groped towards the knife-and-fork drawer, began to kiss her back, and this time tears fell from her eyes and poured down her face in a stream of incoherence and lipstick... She tried to kid herself she would love her forever."
Shena Mackay, Music Upstairs
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