Archives for posts with tag: Syria

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1.

It is dawn again. Dawn in the desert. The smell of the earth and the dew. The sounds of the chirruping birds.

The pervasive silence of the long black night coming to an end.

My night blindness is getting worse. I sat on my spectacles so am guessing, largely… where the keys are.

The days get hotter and hotter. The sun beating down relentlessly. The lawn toasting, the dogs roasting, the mountain tightens around us as it bakes.

Hot days in Dorset/ hot days in Malibu. Hot days on the sleepy ocean, lapping around me.

Coffee, editing, read the daily news. It sure looks bad in Syria.

We cruise down to the beach and play in the surf. We are tangled at night in the white linen sheets. We read side by side in silence. A familiar smell, a beating heart, the man I want but do not need.

He asks what we are. Nothing. We are nothing, I say. He struggles with ‘what it means’ to love another man.

My struggle is over. I am too old to give love a second chance.

He sees me thinking. He will read this and tell me to talk to him as if talking will solve everything. Just shut up and make love to me. Stop asking me what it means. Don’t expect me to know anything. Work it out yourself.

I don’t really care.

For all the terrible, meaningless cruelty I am still besotted with him. And, like the parent of a missing child, I wonder daily about his safety. Even though he is undeserving of my worry and considers my concern an intrusion..

I continue to fret about him, however violently I have tried to expunge the memory.

2.

I am mostly happy. I know you don’t believe me. I know that you think I am lying to you about my happiness.

Well, if you could see me… if you were the one laying beside me… you would understand.

Island Wall. The tiny cottage there. It was enough. It was perfect.

Now I lay my head down and it is enough.

Perhaps, you say, you could be happier? How much happier?

Facelifts, apparently, make women happier.

Then I realize that you are confusing your own thoughts about getting older with what you think happiness is. How can anyone be that old and be happy? How can anyone have so little and be happy?

Then, you try convincing me that I should want to be young again. Forgetting, of course, that I was never young. Always old. Always.

I have a spectacular ability to get on with what I have and be happy with it.

I don’t want more. Even in the jail. I found comfort. I found solace.

So, you think I am unhappy because you do not know what happiness is.

Could you imagine a happy person killing themselves? I could.

Come death.

3.

I had another dream about the DA. This time my thumb was in her mouth. She was sucking my thumb. Pressed down on her tongue. Like a calf. Her big brown eyes looking up at me.

Whenever I dream about her, her cheap gold jewelry tinkles like ice cubes in a crystal glass.

4.

I am writing my screenplay. Finishing it. I am enjoying a social life. I let the man beside me massage my neck.

I understand that I am in love with struggle. Struggle is sustenance.  It feeds me everything I need to live. I am alive when I fight to survive. I am alive when I feel myself emerge victorious. Even though you could not imagine what I experience as victory.

I dream that I am walking by my primary school in Whitstable. The black, tarmac playground is always empty. The lawn is green. The classrooms, I assume, are full.

I remember the boy who ate coal, the butcher’s son. He looked like a pink pig. Fat, pink, bespectacled. He drowned you know. You knew that… didn’t you? When he couldn’t take it anymore.

5.

Hush, the babies are sleeping, the farmers, the fishers, the tradesmen and pensioners, cobbler, schoolteacher, postman and publican, the undertaker and the fancy woman, drunkard, dressmaker, preacher, policeman, the webfoot cocklewomen and the tidy wives.

Young girls lie bedded soft or glide in their dreams, with rings and trousseaux, bridesmaided by glow-worms down the aisles of the organplaying wood. The boys are dreaming wicked or of the bucking ranches of the night and the jollyrogered sea.

And the anthracite statues of the horses sleep in the fields, and the cows in the byres, and the dogs in the wet-nosed yards; and the cats nap in the slant corners or lope sly, streaking and needling, on the one cloud of the roofs.

A charming, quiet week in Malibu with friends.  The weather has been spectacular since I arrived home from NYC.

Art Platform events all weekend.  Abbott Kinney on Saturday afternoon.  Sunday lunch with Fielder and Danny.  Grom ice cream at the Lumber Yard.

On our way downtown we saw the remnants of the LA Wall Street demonstration.

I bought a small work at the new LA Art Fair by a new artist called Ariel Evestingcol called Labor Plot.  A police officer is beating a man with a baton.  I bought it mostly to celebrate the Wall Street Demonstrations.  Which, I failed to mention in an earlier blog I had seen whilst I was in NYC.

Apparently my more elegant gay friends are not interested in supporting our brave comrades down town.  Perhaps if Taylor Lautner was manning the barricades with his shirt off they would join in?

My friend Zelko tells me that there are lesbians on the front line but no gay men.  One young gay man approached Zelko and asked him what he was doing there.  When Zelko told him that he was supporting the cause the 24-year-old countered that he finds the protesters ‘annoying’ for being loud, naked and stinky.  Zelko told him that those were the exact words that came to mind whenever he thought of a gay pride parade.   He asked him if he’d feel differently if the cause was gay rights.  No answer.

As I have been suggesting for some time, the laissez faire…let them eat cake attitude of both the government and the banks will breed dissatisfaction and insurrection.

Let the breaking of windows begin.

What is just (at the moment) an inarticulate expression of the frustrated, hopeless and disenfranchised will surely shape up into something more potent.  The more the police arrest, the unprovoked pepper spraying of innocent young women, the more like Syria it becomes.

I suspect that the government will tread very carefully around further arresting potential martyrs.

I salute the 700!  Being arrested in the USA has severe consequences.

The problem with this demonstration is the lack of articulated protest.  Nobody really knows how to change the system.  Nobody really knows what changes need to be made.  Nobody seems to use language familiar to European socialists.

Socialism may very well be terrifying to the very people who need to use this language the most.

A fair and equitable world.  The people no longer enslaved with crippling debt.  The rich paying a fair tax.  Human rights such as health care and a good education.  Illegal wars must stop.

These are not outrageous demands.

Those protesting in New York have been circulating a list of grievances, most of which are aimed at corporations that they say are too powerful and often unethical. Among the complaints: bank executives received “exorbitant” bonuses not long after receiving taxpayer bailouts and companies have “poisoned the food supply through negligence” and “continuously sought to strip employees of the right to negotiate better pay and safer working conditions.”

The demonstrators seem frightened at the prospect of issuing demands, formulating their own utopian dream and, as I have already said, using the language and heroes of socialist Europe.

Until these young people begin to make emphatic demands these sort of sophomoric sit-ins will not gain any traction.

The ‘haves and the have more’ will look down their noses at these youngsters.  They will exact their revenge unless these fledgling heroes whip up support all over the country, from Albuquerque to Alaska…harness the raw power of the unemployed and demand that their concerns are as relevant as those of the corporations and the banks.

We will see in good time just how effective these youngsters can be at making change, the very same change the wimp Obama promised us all when he spoke to the people…before he won the election.

How cynical his false promises were.

Last night I dreamt of you know who.  As vivid a dream I could not have imagined.

On a windswept street in Europe we talked about reconciliation.  He was wearing the protective armor of an american football player.

He said, “People can’t imagine what I saw in you.”  And I reply, “Well, you knew what you were getting yourself into.  Everything was out there.  Every defect revealed, written about…mocked.”

I have no idea what he saw in me.  I can only imagine that Anthony Patch from Fitzgerald’s Beautiful and the Damned, his great hero…may provide some answers.

In the dream he kissed a man in front of me and I remember thinking that I wanted him to be happy and free.  I remember thinking to myself…why am I fighting this stranger?   What if he triumphs?  Does it really matter?

He really is a better man than I could ever be.  A better liar, better at sex, better intellect, better looking.

I said to him in the dream, “I am sorry that I wasn’t what you thought I could be.  I wasn’t the rich, handsome, debonaire, literary hero you wanted so badly to rescue you from your dull wife.”

“I am so sorry I was too old and poor and fractured.  I am sorry that there was no huge house, no silk slippers, no deliverance from a mundane ‘virtual’ office job.  That is his role…not mine.  He will come and find you, he will take you home to his mansion, he will let you swim in his pool…he will love you like I could not love you.”

The reconciliation I dream about is as hopeless as the dream some of us have of a better USA.