What was I to do with myself? The angle of the sun, light latched on leaves, there was a heart to this day, I was sure. The stillness gathered, like water settling. My life was all around me. What would ease the pain? Giving up. But did making a note in my diary change anything? It didn’t seem likely. Small insects buzzed and shimmered in the sunshine, everyone was away, the garden was in a mess! I stood, quite motionless, for a long time. It was beautiful, but pointless. I decided that reason wouldn’t fit this world, it was a key without a lock. When all was said and done, there sat at the kernel of everything an imponderable strangeness. Thoughts didn’t work on it. Thoughts, I mean, were the wrong kind of tool to operate upon this mystery. How would I die?

The buzzing engine of my mind, driving to a party | An empty chateau, with coloured paper lanterns | glowing in the trees, and | I wondered | the old, aching thought, much more mellow now the years had passed | There were the costumes, the masks, the cloaks and hats and dresses | the splendid silks and wools | Having inherited the earth, the meek had moved on, leaving it behind | Silence filled each receptacle | perfectly | with an alien peace | the thimbles, the carts, the pans, the shoes…



from the series construct (2012–present, ongoing)