Serial Library passage Sept 2

2 Sep

Men in yellow hardhats enter the garden at seven o’clock. The sun is coming up. There are rocks already everywhere. In the garden, the men in yellow hardhats stand for something among men who hardly move. They breathe. They easily breathe their steaming breath which stands before them ragged and about to fade, small thought bubbles in forgotten comic books in wood frame houses on the edge of a city that’s got no need for wood frame houses anymore.

We rose above the rest of what lay below us like god’s boots treading across the heavens. We were treading. Like little boats with teensy pinpoint holes setting the pattern for what comes next. As we tread water, we are treading wither we have already descended unto thee, oh my glorious day.

Their seed had polluted me. It had been a long day. The Midland Central drew nearer until finally the melodrama was over.

I met somebody who reminded me of something. I am not sure what we can be reminded of when we are reminded of something by someone we have seen, but it seems to me that whatever it is we are reminded of is the same every time as what we are always reminded of whenever we are reminded by somebody of something. I think I have spent enough time talking about this now, but there is the nagging feeling that there should somehow be more. There should somehow always be more, but more is just another emptiness that fills me. It fills me with dread. It is an emptiness like the space at the top of the drain when the water is draining and it forms a tiny whirlpool and the space in the centre of that whirlpool is exactly equivalent to the dread that fills the space of emptiness I feel when I feel always like there ought to be more. I am oddly happy when I understand again for the umpteenth time that there needs to be more.

I am only happy being reminded of one thing, but I don’t know what that one thing is… I don’t think I could tell you – I don’t believe I have the capacity to excavate – the thing that things remind me of when I am being reminded of something.

Her book was bent to her bosom. She resisted the urge to arch. She arced, a flame travelling up, then stopping, then surging, stopping, eventually settling, shimmering, dying.

What I first thought was a place of worship was actually my foot.

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