April 23rd, 2019

Coming Down The Long Straight Road

I dreamed we were taking a young girl into care- only her father came too; he was very young and as white as paper with a nose that was not so much broken as collapsed- with nothing of its internal structure left- only the stretched skin- like that of a mummified cadaver. As we drove away two girls closed off the road ahead of us with wire mesh gates. It was a very narrow road, only wide enough for a single vehicle- and they said the gypsies were coming. I looked around and saw there were people sitting on the waste ground- among tents and parked cars- waiting for their families to arrive. I looked up the long straight road, eager to see the approaching caravans, but there was nothing yet.

Although I understood these were gypsies what I actually heard was giaours- which is a Turkish word meaning infidels...

Thoroughly Miscellaneous

My weed burner uses butane gas- which comes in canisters. Are the canisters recyclable?
I've read the screed on their sides and it tells me all sorts of things but not that.

Whenever I work in the garden at ground level- weeding, mowing, edging- small lives- mainly ants and spiders- hasten to get out of my way. I do my best not to harm them but I don't think you can be both a gardener and a Jain.

Baw is with us again. He and Sith are replacing the rackety sliding door on the side of the garage with a window. When they've done that there are other jobs lined up...


John McEnery died. Everyone who remembers him remembers him as Mercutio. It was one of those performances- so brilliant, so vital they define a whole career. It seems he put a lot of himself into it. One the highlights of his old age was getting hauled up before the beak for waving a water pistol around in a pub.

I was talking about him to a friend and it suddenly came to me out of a clear blue sky that Mercutio- as written- is a loving portrait of the recently deceased Kit Marlowe. I don't know if this is a fresh new thought or a scholarly commonplace but I'm sure there's truth in it. The wit, the poetry, the irreverence, the death by stabbing- who else could it be?

Brandishing an empty pistol in a pub is just the sort of thing Kit would have done. Perhaps he did. And perhaps he did it in Faversham- just like John- on a side trip to research his play about Thomas Arden...