Prose: Writing in Gutters
I was a habitual reader during those nights, the ones when I couldn’t sleep, and I’d write notes in the gutter of each bound page of whatever book I read. In pencil, mostly. Pencilled thoughts I knew I’d forget the next day, and so, I began a diary of those first emigrated months that in hindsight were not the glaring personal loss that I felt so severely. It was late autumn, and there was a final hum of bees and chatter of birds before migration, and long handwritten letters home that never came to the point, and I learned to use a fork and table-knife as a European does, my mother winced in my dereliction of table manners, and train rides that I found unreasonably relaxing to the point of sleeping beyond the approach of my station, bonfires and smoke that scented the air and turned the sunset the colour of brass, and there were shirehorses with muddies legs, and church bells, and the milkman’s cart rattling me awake at daybreak, the postman whistling tunes that always ran too quickly across my ear. And each day was another diversion, and it seemed that time was a mental condition – one of those conditions you don’t mention, better to say nothing about. Time was ripe, and it was never an intrusion. And when all the white space on pages filled with my thoughts, I stopped. Like a last gasp before walking across hot white sand.
All text sourced and remixed from the TextClock which draws text from the Project Gutenberg ebooks: 2 May 2015 at 14:51