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Weaving the cloth

Weaving the cloth

Waiting is a powerless agony. I study anguish in its progress, in a panicky, offended manner. A queue for a bureaucratic matter, the renewal of papers, a late train, a date or appointment, a traveller home late, practical matters keeping me away from what I cherish, are able to rekindle this nervous agitated worry. I wait for presence (the end of absence) or for news about a disaster (the only other possible outcome).

At times, presence gets confused with absence – I mistake ordinary carelessness for fading, or a meaningless gesture for willful or unconscious neglect or rejection, and this is the source of the greatest of fears. The primal, clinical fear of a collapse. If only I could understand that this is fear of a crash I’ve already experienced. If only I could remind myself that the loss I anticipate is a damage that has already come to pass, that cannot subsist again, a departure towards Night that has already occurred. Then I’d be peaceful and light-hearted. I’d see it as the chalk outline of a dead monster.

But I wait, like unsold stock. In apnoea. An evil spirit comes and takes everything from me, and when there’s an end to absence, this “everything” must be recreated afresh. Like a child or a dog, unable to understand that there’s an end to departure, that eventually there’ll be a Return to fill the gaping Nothing.

Absence carries on and I have to endure it. I try to control it, turn it into action. I rush around. I pretend. I sing and weave the cloth I’ll destroy at night, with all my senses alert. I take pictures. I write.

3 comments on “Weaving the cloth

  1. brilliant my dear!

  2. Karen, thank you! It’s like when you hurt your knee while skiing and then, every time you see snow, you feel a pang as if you had fallen the day before that.

    I’ve put you in my friends links on the right, hope you don’t mind. Have a wonderful weekend.

  3. Good blogging!

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