i write this sitting in the kitchen sink. that is, my feet are in it; the rest of me is on the draining-board, which i have padded with our dog's blanket and the tea-cosy. i can't say that i am really comfortable, and there is a depressing smell of carbolic soap, but this is the only part of the kitchen where there is any daylight left. and i have found that sitting in a place where you have never sat before can be inspiring - i wrote my very best poem while sitting on the hen-house. though even that isn't a very good poem. i have decided my poetry is so bad that i mustn't write any more of it.
drips from the roof are plopping into the water-butt by the back door. the view through the windows above the sink is excessively drear. beyond the dank garden in the courtyard are the ruined walls on the edge of the moat. beyond the moat, the boggy ploughed fields stretch to the leaden sky. i tell myself that all the rain we have had lately is good for nature, and that at any moment spring will surge on us. i try to see leaves on the trees and the courtyard filled with sunlight. unfortunately, the more my mind's eye sees green and gold, the more drained of all colour does the twilight seem.
kafka | her only nightgown
(rui)
Etiquetas: escritos ditos e vivos, photografias desenhos e outras imagens, sons que fascinam
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