The beginnning of a story in a notebook

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The Beginnning of a story in a notebook

He was never a close friend of mine - he had charm and I have always believed that charismatic people should be kept at arm's length.

I first knew him at university. I would not have spent time with him but for a chance meeting on St James Street near Willow's.

This is the start of a story -uncompleted- which owes, or promised to owe- a lot to F.S. Fitzgerald. I did complete about twenty stories, of which maybe five can be reread without wincing. I often started them in these little notebooks which could be carried around easily. 

One set of stores was called The Annie Stories and consisted mainly of very short dialogues in various settings - cafes, parks and so on, in which she showed her sympathy for her friend, the narrator. I think the Annie character was similar to Mr Rabbit, in the beautifully named Charlotte Zolotow and  Maurice Sendak's Mr Rabbit and The Lovely Present crossed with Richard Brautigan and maybe a dash of  Salinger's sister in Catcher in the Rye. In idle moments, I think of resuscitating these but usually when I think like that it is because of sentimentality and not because the idea has a relevance any more.

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I've always been interested in very short forms,- the Haiku, the very short story, the limerick,  aphorisms, fairy tales or parables- which are often characterized by wit, and a refusal to preach. And with these pieces, I suppose I'm trying to continue this with little reflections and digressions to accompany photographs of mainly, rather modest items and the thoughts they bring. 

The photo gives a starting point, and usually I start by responding very simply to what the picture is of. Then, later, when I am relaxedly engaging in other stuff like folding my clothes another train of thought enters, often with some force, to augment the initial, often somewhat banal offering. Sometimes the train of thought presents an idea so personal that I worry that it might be too revealing of some darkness in me, or some wicked actions I partook of. But that would be my own affair.

Far worse, were it to cause some needless unhappiness in others. It isn't right to say something nasty just because it is true, or because others might enjoy reading it, or because it will gain an audience.

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The lights have gone out.

The lights have gone out. Actually, the internet went off first of all. I was watching “Of Mice and Men” when the screen went dead. I thought it was because I’d hit the cable with my foot but then I found the lights out too.

An hour later I’m stalking myself in the apartment: quiet. There are no lights in the corridors of the block. I go downstairs negotiating the blackened steps to see if there was a notice about the electricity being shut off for maintenance, but nothing. Near the notice board I see the electo-magnetic closer that holds the block’s front door shut has stopped working- the door swings, to and fro, an inch or two from a breeze outside.

I feel this sadness about everything. I make some coffee. The stove is a gas stove: I light it with a match. Everything happens very slowly. The kettle heats the water; the coffee percolates with a faint bubbling sound, I stand around. I dd milk. I don’t want coffee but I can’t think of anything left to do. It’s 5pm.

It’s not a great feeling, that listlessness, like a sort of Richard Brautigan feeling, like in “Trout Fishing in America”.

I’m not fed up enough to do anything radical, that’s part of the problem I guess.

The trees in the distance from the balcony are softly green in the drizzle that everywhere outside smothers. I shuffle from the kitchen to the balcony an back again holding my cup. For a moment I think of listening to some music but then I remember about the electricity. It’s sort of not quite raining. I lack the will to go out.

A girl with big boobs comes to the window of a flat in the block opposite. I watch her for a moment, then creep back into the flat. I know if she caught me looking she’d know I was looking would be just because of her boobs. It doesn’t help that she’s wearing the most diminutive vest-top imaginable. I guess her boobs are her main thing. I peer from within the room and see that’s she’s gone.

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It’s spitting with rain now and I stand on the balcony again hearing the birds chirp and the workmen on the site across the road. They’re banging on something. The sound echoes between the blocks. The light in the flat is wan.

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I have a feeling that now is a very bad time to be alive. Everything seems to be going wrong.

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Illustration: "Unknown Feelings", Monotype, 2009