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Memory travel

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  • louise
    Off into the night, another of those missions. Walking feet take me through quiet streets, across roads noisy with traffic, to pedestrianised highways, an
    Message 1 of 1 , Oct 3, 2008
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      Off into the night, another of those missions. Walking feet take me
      through quiet streets, across roads noisy with traffic, to
      pedestrianised highways, an underpass, finally to the small
      traditional public house shimmering earlier on my mental telescreen.
      The small clientele retains the inward poise, neither in
      acknowledgment nor in resistance impinging on the entrance of a
      relative stranger. Looking to the blackboard, I see a small selection
      of guest ales changed from my most recent visit. A half-pint glass is
      soon foaming with the chosen bitter, money changes hands, and momentum
      takes me slowly as far as a seat in the far corner, beyond the bar,
      close to the mounted wooden coathooks. It is sweet to sit in silence,
      there is only the hum of intermittent conversation, and voices from a
      television fixed to the corner wall, to which nobody is paying
      attention. Closer to me are the pictures in celebration of famous
      footballing sons, and multiple beer mats, arrayed high on the back
      wall. I take my first sip. Freedom to allow feelings that hide, a
      little time to come abroad. Unwinding. Space in which to be aware.
      It is the same world, of a thousand years ago, recorded by the bards
      of Anglo-Saxon times. A kinship sensed, unspoken. I am apart, on
      this occasion, and it is good. More beer. Another regular enters,
      approaches his friends, is greeted by chaffing banter, the commonality
      expands. This mind rather blank, forlorn. One of the group rises, to
      hang up his coat. The smell of a clean English male sets me thinking,
      raises my mood. How long must a suffering nation wait, before
      individuals find common cause? Rhetoric is dear to the English
      imagination, we love the presentation of possibility, on a stage that
      is not that of the pageant of life itself, though for a while it might
      appear to be so. The green land is preserved, it is also
      disappearing. I rise to buy another half-pint of good ale, down it
      with the gratitude of need. Before long I am out on the streets
      again, rapidly, rapidly, walking past houses and gardens, weaving and
      swerving, sometimes stopping. I am driven, yet freely so, this is a
      process trusted. Halting, breathless, to embrace the trunk of a tree.
      Ever more rapidly onwards, I press on, reaching the town centre,
      passing a public house or two, until I find the one that beckons
      entry. A larger interior, several sectors, with satellite tv viewing.
      At the bar I purchase a sharper beer, half a pint for a round pound.
      Black and white framed photographs on the wall, gracious views of an
      earlier townscape. It was the call of Lethe, now. Settled at a
      table, I drank the final medicine. Empty glass to the bar, travelling
      body through the doors, emergence under the night sky, heading for the
      great park, down the avenues of mighty trees, across the stream, round
      to the bandstand, the glimmering lake, purposeful stupor leads me to a
      bench, physical rest, verbal release, and onwards again, beeline for
      domestic shelter. Geomorphic vehicle, you seek the steady, the still,
      there on the bathroom floor, it all revolves too fast. Nausea is
      absent. The fact is pain. There is a fitting tempo, one not devised
      by the human mind. Without discrimination, what possibility of its
      acceptance? I define myself, in relation to the cosmos, to the race,
      to this land, to breathing sentient life, to the origin itself, the
      One undefined. In acceptance of a guilt purely my own, borne beyond
      time by the only innocent flesh, I am without shame. Louise
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