A natural fizzling out

 I think it is important to type down the various nuances of the field of entro metriological teleology. There is and are and is and are lots of frustrated frustrations walking around in the stadium right now, hither and tither, whereever and elsewhere, in no unbound tyrone bound paperbound tree sap gherao. 

Waiting for the right sentence; what it consists of. Nothing doing anything else that should not be done and then waiting for the right sentence to type itself to get thought itself without your thinking it. Just letting that window opened and waiting for that bird to come in and eat that grain that you have put in the bowl and you should make sure that you are not staying not near that bowl and not moving your body or making noise. Hiding in fact.

Jaunty, intimate and faintly satanic

The first ever encounter gave intimate, jaunty and faintly satanic vibrations with high-pitched girlish voices coming down from the hawkish buzz. Blue eyes giving that wink, whistling through Deedle deedle deedle, like a dentist's drill. A whistle like that turned the room across the corridor like some perennial irritants. The wireless played on irately, complaining about the villainous price of drinks and abashment. A company picture hangs protuberantly with parboiled lies, avoiding the skirting of the skriting of truth. Flames burst forth with clasped hands and stringy neck soles which are much-mended for its glossy brown brogues to the tip of the conical skull. The long-lobed leathery ears stick out with dried and smoked smoky yellow tinge. The buzz of voices can be heard on the wireless virulence of recognized boundary lines.

Later that day, the black car came, or the following one, or the one following that, glossy saw the black cat again, recognised it at once as it went bounding over the little humpbacked bridge that spanned the railway line. It is still there, that bridge, just beyond the station. Yes, things endure, while the living lapse. The car was heading out of the village in the direction of the town, shall call it Ballymore, a dozen miles away. The town is Ballymore, this village in Ballyless, ridiculously, perhaps, but do not care.

Departing strange tide

on the day of the strange tide... all morning under a milky sky the waters in the bay had swelled and swelled... rising to unheard of heights... the small waves creeping over parched sand that for years had known no wetting save for rain and lapping the very bases of the dunes... the rusted hulk of the freighter that had run aground at the far end of the bay longer ago than could be remembered must have thought it was being granted a relaunch... no swimming after that day... seabirds mewled and swooped unnerved... it seemed... by the spectacle of that vast bowl of water bulging like a blister... lead-blue and malignantly agleam... they looked unnaturally white... that day... those birds... the waves were depositing a fringe of soiled yellow foam along the waterline... no sail marred the high horizon... would not swim... no... not ever again...

just walked over a grave...

the name of the house is cedars... as of old... a bristling clump of those trees... monkey-brown with a tarry reek... their trunks nightmarishly tangled... still grows at the left side... facing across an untidy lawn to the big curved window of what used to be the living room... prefers to be called in landladyese... the lounge... the front door is at the opposite side... opening on to a square of oil-stained gravel behind the iron gate that is still painted green... though rust has reduced its struts to a tremulous filigree... amazed at how little has changed in the more than fifty years that have gone by since... amazed and disappointed... going so far as to say appalled... for reasons that are obscure... since who desired change... coming back to live amongst the rubble of the past... wondering how the house was built like that... sideways-on... turning a pebble-dashed windowless white end-wall to the road... perhaps in former times... before the railway... the road ran in a different orientation altogether... passing directly in front of the front door... anything is possible... although vague on dates... thinking a cottage was first put up here early in the last century... the century before last... losing track of the millenia... and then was added on to haphazardly over the years... that would account for the jumbled look of the place... with small rooms giving on to bigger ones... and windows facing blank walls and low ceilings throughout... the pitchpine floors sound a nautical note... as does the swindle-backed swivel chair... imagining an old swivel-backed chair... imagining dozing old by the fire... landlubbered at last... and the winter gale rattling the window frames...

all those years ago... the cedars was a summer house... for rent by the fortnight or the month... during all of june each year a rich raucous infestation happened... loud-voiced laughter and throwing stones from behind the unbreachable barrier of the gate... and a mysterious non-speaking grimly silent walk every morning down station road to the strand... august was the most interesting month at the cedars... an afternoon theatre show in the village's galvanised-tin cinema... then... that year...

motor car... parked on the gravel inside the gate... it was a low-slung... scarred and battered black model with beige leather seats and a big spoked polished wood steering wheel... books with bleached and dog-eared covers were thrown carelessly on the shelf under the sportily raked back window... and there was a touring map of france... much used... the front door of the house stood wide open... voices can be heard inside... downstairs... and from upstairs the sound of running on floorboards and laughter... pausing by the gate... frankly eavesdropping... and now suddenly liquid came out of the house... close-cut... crinkled... glittering-black flecks of pointed blackish premature grey... loose green and khaki... so deeply tanned by the sun having a purplish sheen... brown and fish-belly white below...  the tumbler contained ice-blue gin and ice cubes and a lemon slice... at a perilous angle on the roof of the car and opened the door and leaned inside to rummage for something under the dashboard... in the unseen upstairs of the house... wild laughter and warbling cry of mock-panic... and again there was the sound of scampering... playing chase voicelessly... straightened the glass of gin from the roof and slammed the car door... whatever has been searched for has not been found... winking after turning back... at once arch and ingratiating... a conspiratorial... masonic wink... almost... as if this moment... shared... outwardly without significance... without content... even... nonetheless had meaning... extraordinary pale transparent shade of blue... went back inside then... already talking through the door... damned thing... seems to be... and was gone... lingered a moment... scanning the upstairs windows... no appearance...