Writing in a friend’s flat in Melbourne, stream-of-consciousness over a cup of tea (of course). Then the light shifted and the blind left these lovely ripple shadows across the page.
Here’s the text:
Why do we do what we do instead of what we want to do? Me, I hem and haw. Hem. Haw. Like a stitching donkey, “the hem and haw” – a bar for crafters, seamstresses, witches. A bar for witches. With matches. In stitches. On crutches. Witches on crutches in doorways of churches. Fallen arches. Fallen archangels and fallen arch enemies. Witches on crutches shuffle through the rubble, cook it in the kettle (so cliche), rub it in the metal. Shine it like glass. An oily rag, a silver spoon, the head of the class. “This is the time. And this is the record of the time.” This is a gap in time, at the end of time, when angels catch the falling foundling, the found fallings. Take this down, would you?