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#716
Salome“I thought you'd be pleased,” she saidwhen she presented mewith the typescript of our conversation. Well I was, in a way, flattered at least, but I'd never intendedwhat I'd said to have such...
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#717
Forever is Just Another WordI don't know where all the words have gone. Perhaps they've all been used on someone else. Perhaps there's nothing left but meto hold you in the dark. But we don't need them...
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Dear Reflection: I Never Meant to be a Rebel
Autobiography is fiction, and fiction is autobiography. Factual truth is irrelevant to autobiography. – Robert Elbaz Before we get into my article here’s a short blog post from Jessica from March 2010...
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#718
The VoyeurNo, it's not enough to know. It's never been enough. It just all depends on your point of viewhow much you can seeof Truth as she changes. And how much that revealsdepends on what you're...
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#719
BonesI've been gnawing on the bones of the past for years. I dig them up every now and thenbut it's comforting just to know they're there. It's an unmarked grave, the past, but I know where it is. 6...
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#720
The Right Kind of LiesThe truth of it was visibly brittleso we wrapped it upin the right kind of liesand took it with usaway from the pastwhere it should have stayed. 6 April 1991 Yet another truth...
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#721
The Old ManThe old man looked out of his windowat the screeching gull as it wheeled away. There is a value to ignorance, he thought. If you lose it, it cannot be replaced.And he looked again where the...
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#722
Lean PickingsSlowly and deliberatelyshe picked her waythrough the husks of wordssearching for a kernel of hidden meaning, what she called "truth.""Was that all that was worth saying?"I asked, when she...
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#723
Medusa"I had to see,"she said, by way of explanation. "With my own eyes."But this explained nothing. "Sitting in a darkened roompeering through a two-way mirror. It's not the same."And I had to...
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#724
MotherI sat and watched my mother cry, and said, "These arms are mine. You gave them to me. You cannot have them back."6 April 1991 My mother cried a lot. I made her cry. My brother and sister made...
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#725
FaçadeI hid from you behind the only words I hadsaying just those things I knew you knew. But not it all. Just the things I knew you wouldn't question. 6 April 1991Lying is wrong. That’s what I was...
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Miss Christie Regrets
[L]et me try to define what it is that the readers of Sunday papers mean when they say fretfully that ‘you never seem to get a good murder nowadays’. – George Orwell, Decline of the English Murder This...
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#726
The Sands of TimeThere is something I have to tell youthat you do not want to hearand which will not helpbut in a moment of weakness I loved you. You never had to do anything. Nor do you have to now....
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#727
CragHe was a barren crag of a manopen to feelings and stripped bare by thembut unable to move out of the way. 6 April 1991 I have mixed feelings about feelings. I like to think of myself as an...
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#728
The Widow TimeThe widow Time left her mark on me. She slipped something in my teathen got to work with her needle: a tattooed scar of what she could have done. 6 April 1991 I’ve always been fascinated...
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#729
WhispersI invested all my feelingsin a poem for you. And locked them carefully in the wordswith time as the key. This is not that poem but now you know it's therebe careful and do not force the lock. 6...
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#730
A Return to Orwell's CaféThere was very little on the board to play withapart from love. She'd used him before but never to any great effect. He was always last to go. The glasses were still empty....
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#731
The PresentShe made me a present of the past. I had one already but it wasn't much of one. The memories had got a bit dusty from lack of use. One or two had even disappeared. They're probably still...
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#732
An Early FallMy feelings are leaves and it's Autumn. Why do you tear them down? Why won't you let the winds of change do their job? They do it well. Why hasten the Winter when Spring is so long in...
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Suicide
Birth befalls meLife occupies meDeath completes me– Édouard Levé, Suicide ‘The Death of the Author’ is a 1967 essay by the French literary critic and theorist Roland Barthes. It has nothing to say...
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