Stories of lost property. Stories of property lost then found. Stories of property found then lost. Stories of self storage of property. Self storage as self storyage. Stories about property stored by people who are now dead & unable to claim it. Stories of property sold sight-unseen from the self storage bins & units of the recently dead. Stories about people who have inadvertently self stored themselves. Stories of mutilated but curiously unbloodied bodies found in self storage bins & units, the flesh is recorded as being “translucent, whitish” “weighty & substantial” and “falling heavily apart along strong clean cutlines”. Stories of mutilated unbloodied bodies found in self-storage bins & units but without the head. The head is missing. The owner of the head is now dead & unable to reclaim it, but it can’t be sold. Limbs flung into rivers. Self storage in other countries.
…nostalgia is part of your life come back to burn your fingers, so you piss on not just this fire but the whole idea of fire, as quick as you can.
I stood a long time watching the raindrops strike the brickwork in absolute silence then fade in the warmth and the wind.
A half-built estate. I remember kneeling over frozen puddles from which all the water seemed to have evaporated, leaving only ice on top of air. Later in the year a stile; a narrow pathway between hedges. I used to have a dream about walking on the flat green water of a canal. I remember looking down from a bridge. The water on the left, narrow lawns with trees on the right. Sunshine and shade. Ecstatic happiness. In the dream the water’s right at the level of the path, they form a single continuous surface. By the time I was twenty I’d forgotten all this except as flashes, glimpses, nothing that could even be labeled as a memory. I’ve been looking for the childhood source of the images for almost fifty years. I also have an image of playing with wooden building blocks, faded grainy blue, orange and brown. And from the same period, I think, nightmares featuring a train with a coloured dragon coming out of its chimney instead of smoke. With some of these dreams I associate the distant sound of shunting engines and the leaden buzzing noise–apprehended as both a taste and and a smell–I used as an index of the uncanny in some stories. But those images may be from later, when we had moved somewhere else.
Your hands & feet are cold. There’s a certain amount of rain. The dogs are howling in the next garden. Someone in the street says, “Almost everything can be interesting,” & then, “August the first is too late.” You read:
“A few days later Lanny tried the crystal ball again, and there came something new. Blue water, sparkling in sunshine–everything was always bright in that globe, like a technicolour film.”
This leads you to wonder if Upton Sinclair–surfacing from the deep trench of your early teens to bob around 50 years later in a backwater bookshop in Much Wenlock–is, in fact, some sort of forgotten “influence”. Better read on, now you’ve got him home. But perhaps first close the door & find some socks.
Imagine this as a photograph found in the usual collapsing shoebox at the usual car boot sale, you know the score by now. The Dali family’s urge towards meaning is as mistaken as your own. Their attempt to force an arrangement on the world by composing themselves in it collides with your attempt to interpret their attempt: in the ensuing confusion, nothing can be understood. It would help just a little if you didn’t see it as a picture of the Dalis–or, especially, of Dali. Everything else in it would begin to matter. The boat, for instance, which you see as leaving rather than arriving, might suddenly become a lot more important.
I like the idea of putting periods of your life in storage for such a long time you forget them. It’s a productive repression. When you experience the return of the repressed, you experience it as the act of writing and the content of the fiction. Memories come back not as memories but in inexplicable actions or feelings, mysterious nostalgias, psychosomatic jolts and shocks of disguised language. I resent the “healing” to be gained from retrospective understanding and acknowledgement. I wouldn’t want a healthy relationship with the past.
(Tarted up from a BTL exchange with Nick Royle, here.)