Tuesday, May 12, 2009

up to a slate pebble

Suddenly Dor turned round

and a dragon face and a furnace mouth came up at me large and hot and I shrieked.

That's scary, Dor. Don't do that to me.

Depends, said Dor, and she ran down the clotted hill singing "For he is a Plymouth man". Moss ran ribbons around her and squatted in the grass with her tongue out panting, her eyes on Mistress.

berrr-Um-per-dum dum! I joined in. My legs were like white brawn sausages (and an infant in Dickens), I sang God Save the King lustily, wearing Clarks' walking shoes and a navy Aertex Ladybird shirt.

It's the missile base. You can see 'em taking off down the loch most days. One hit into the quarry once. A Westland helicopter crash-landed in the glory hole.

Dor's toe-nails were soft and she could "cut" them just by picking at one side until a split appeared. She threw them into the stream and they milled in the whirlpool like sideways boats. I scraped at the powdery lichen on the bench and collected green dust in my sock. Mossy got her coat wet and vibrated in the air atomising doggy eau-de-cologne. Clouds slipped past each other; occasionally the sun came through and coloured the chink of a distant glen.

oh the ferny brae, Dor sang.

What song is that, I wondered. Look it up on Google when I get back.

All we do is try different drinks.

The clarity of the jug. The Claret Jug. This is Ravel, this is Morisot. International clarity at last. Soon we will begin to write true novels about everything. Even Algérie.

But if it's real, what else is there? Is it real or isn't it?

Yeah but Dor, what you're talking about is just something that takes pictures. What I'm talking about is a Camera.

Suddenly Dor looked terribly tired and tears of frustration came brimming out of her eyes and tracked down her cheeks because she couldn't find the words.

It's too hot in the sun. Dor, why don't you go in and have a lie down? I'll wake you up in time for Deal.

What will you be doing, writing your blog?

No. I'll probably have a snooze myself. It's so awfully close, isn't it?


At 4:23 pm, Blogger Vincent said...

I have a sense that some kind of stimulant helps in the reading of your posts. At the moment it is Red Stripe, which helps quite a bit. But I wonder if it should have been claret, to get the full effect?

All I am saying really is that you deserve comments. Perhaps you are choosy what you publish. i always read you, and also the other stuff, much of it, when it's not about poetry, which I have a problem with.

At 9:48 pm, Blogger Michael Peverett said...

Perhaps my skeleton stories do need a stimulant to make up for all the bits that aren't there!

No, I don't often get comments. And it is nice to get one, you have always been very generous. I suppose not much of what I write is in my own voice or invites disagreement and discussion. That's a fault, perhaps. I admire blogs that nurture a feeling of community. But I consciously set out to see if I could write a blog with, as far as possible, no defined character or topic. That's proved much too difficult, but I like to think, at any rate, that when a visitor starts to read a new entry, they can never be quite sure what sort of entry it's going to turn out to be. Sort of the opposite of building an audience. I'm happy that a few readers are apparently prepared to tolerate this discourtesy!


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