Tuesday, 25 November 2014

Ghost Of Myself



Throttled half the night by a throat fever. Sweat refuses to break out, the aching remains bottled in the bones. A few days of this, hot-footing it to Covent Garden where a silver builder floats two feet clear of the ground. A natural wonder. Of course there has to be some kind of trick but no-one can see any strings as they circle round and around clicking their phones saying over and over how does he do it. A gold builder is also in on the act. He sits in mid air without moving a golden muscle. A little further on Charlie Chaplin, sorrowful white face and toothbrush moustache comes back from the dead. His over-sized boots flapping on the cobbles as he twiddles his cane in the same old game, the same old routine that still works its wonder on the technological digital audience which makes me wonder how we would have managed without it all. The answer being quite fine thank you but this comes later on the night of Halloween when earlier I had walked into the city the leaves like discarded wrappers on the pavement and a vague feeling in the bluish air with its silver lights that has the undeniable effect of making me feel younger as if a great weight has been lifted from the pressures that have been causing my face to act as if it was being stretched earthwards on invisible strings attached to invisible fish hooks. The feeling is a real one: no twist of the imagination. The feeling of the spirits being lifted on Halloween before it really gets going and all of the other ghosts come back from the dead. But for now, I’m just happy to spend some time with this ghost of myself.

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