2006-01-21

One tired explorer

The grey man is here again today. He is here with someone else – a younger man, possibly his son, who is also engrossed with sudoku. They sit opposite each other and stare down at the table, blinking periodically, as they try and peel back the blank covers over the empty squares. So, you see, I was wrong; there is someone else in his life, possibly his son, who helps fill his life with everything a heart desires but is incapable of hanging onto in this temporary world of ours. Perhaps a heart can’t go on beating with nothing but sudoku, as sad and dystopian as the world can seem at times.

Usually, this is where I recount the aftermath of another gigantic Laburnum party. I talk of the spills and the stains and the overlooked sins, washed away as they are by biblical proportions of alcohol and other inducements to forget. This, then, is a projection of what may come to pass as the hour of quickening draws near (excuse me - I'm teaching Shakespeare at the moment).

A broken window, a borrowed book, unrecoverable dignity lost or misplaced, blackness spreading sublimely from the frontal lobes past Wenicke's area and lastly to the cerebellum and hopefully no further; regrets are not uncommon, but then, neither are triumphs, these both often categotized as things done which were previously unthinkable; and then, of course, phone calls and police, landlords and notices tacked to doors - this last, of note, in the past as it came to pass (verbally at least) with a frequency both frightening and completely natural as each premise proved conclusion true. And we are still here.

And there, a new light, brighter than the rest, to guide the pilgrims on...

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