Idle fancies, vain imaginings
No one steals a glance. I don’t.
Spend the day in that woolen haze, where time passes us by, as it forever has; our awareness wading through this thickly muddled murk. Our vanity, idle fancies that fancy themselves.
Woolgathering, comatose, serene, in waiting. Surrounded by tall grass. Feigning alertness while waving away the smoke. Worlds away, flickering the stars, bouncing in the clouds or hovering somewhere just below the leafy canopy. Anywhere but here. Anywhere above. Anywhere beyond. Anywhere away.
Survey my fanciful dreamscape and pluck an idea from within the folds. Cold hands, finger probes; shapely shapes. Misshapen. Everything exits through the door opposite, makes a wrong move and never stops for direction.
That clean and simple touch.
Where are we going? Which way are we headed? Feet shuffles that mirror each other. We reach out to hold before we scurry away to pretend we’re deaf. We couldn’t hear. That sound? It wasn’t us. No. It definitely wasn’t us. It couldn’t have been us, no. We were out at the time. Away.
Home to hug the radiator, all alone where no one can see. Mired in melancholy for those unexplained absences. Many, varied, self-imposed. Your existence breaks my concentration so I think you’d better go. I’m back to the field, then. To gather more wool for my vaporous collection.
18 November 2007 at 5:35 pm
Um, are those sheep? Or clouds?
19 November 2007 at 12:36 am
Yeah, melancholy, countryside, away. That’s a favourite trip of mine. Nice surprise to find you into it too - thought you were such a city girl. Your words capture the feelings well.
19 November 2007 at 11:24 am
DAJc: Ha! They are both. I am greedy that way.
Drodbar: Oh, I am a city girl most of the time, but sometimes? My mind runs away with me…
19 November 2007 at 1:26 pm
And in that calm we headed south
Knowing nothing of my demons
There were devils in the winds that night
Walking fire among the hills
And many voices called me out to the cliffs
But you held me safe
You wrestled me still
Wiping the black blood from my mouth
Speeding into nowhere
19 November 2007 at 2:50 pm
Ben: This cold makes me want to grab big, wooly cream blankets and sit in the grass with you, blowing smoke rings and sipping warm hazelnut-flavoured coffee from a thermos flask while we take turns reading aloud passages from your leatherbound notebook.
19 November 2007 at 10:23 pm
hi ani. this is sam pink. i am on your website and your website is called down in me. so i am on down in you. the use of prepositions in that last statement has left me totally confused. i think i’ll go stare at the wall. or drink boiling water and throw it back up steaming.
20 November 2007 at 12:13 am
How did you know I like hazelnut in my coffee? How did you know?!
They always said quoting Patrick Wolf could get you the girls…
20 November 2007 at 3:27 pm
The thing about this pastoral scene is that twisting, turning country lanes can lead almost anywhere, and the most surprising things can appear round every hedgerow corner.
This was beautifully descriptive, and beautifully eloquent. You should run away into that wide blue sky and green, green grass more often … the city’s bustle will, after all, still be there when you return.
20 November 2007 at 9:51 pm
Sam Pink: Hello and welcome, Sam Pink. It’s usually confusing around here so make yourself at home. Just mind the carpet.
Ben: I confess. I have been reading your journal. But I am not sorry, oh no.
AUW: Thank you, for your very serious comment. I shall take your advice and run away often.