November 30th, 2003


I could have danced all night

But I started yawning around 2, so I walked home.

Favourite dance of the evening was to Covenant's Call The Ships to Port

a billion words ago
the sailors disappeared
a story for the children
to rock them back to sleep

a million burning books
like torches in our hands
a fabric of ideals
to decorate our homes

a thousand generations
the soil on which we walk
a mountain of mistakes
for us to climb for pleasure

a hundred clocks are ticking
the line becomes a circle
spin the wheel of fortune
or learn to navigate

a choir full of longing
will call our ships to port
the countless lonely voices
like whispers in the dark

a second of reflection can
take you to the moon
the slightest hesitation can
bring you down in flames

a single spark of passion
can change a man forever
a moment in a lifetime
is all it takes to break him

a fraction of a heartbeat
made us what we are
a brother and a sister
for better or for worse

a billion words ago
they sang a song of leaving
an echo from the chorus
will call them back again

a choir full of longing
will call our ships to port
the countless lonely voices
like whispers in the dark

tonight we light the fires
we call our ships to port
tonight we walk on water
and tomorrow we'll be gone


(no subject)

Tonight I went to the Forest Cafe with Ed, Phyllis and Erin. Ed had organised a "ready a passage from your favourite book" session. I read this, from Alan Moore's Swamp Thing.

If you wear black, then kindly irritating strangers will touch your arm consolingly and inform you that the world keeps turning.

They’re right. It does.

However much you beg it to stop...
It turns and lets grenadine spill over the horizon, sends hard bars of gold through my window and I wake up and feel happy for three seconds and then I remember.
It turns and tips people out of their beds and into their cars, their offices, an avalanche of tiny men and women tumbling through life... All trying not to think about what’s waiting at the bottom...

Sometimes it turns and sends us reeling into each others arms. We cling tight, excited and laughing, Strangers thrown together on a moving funhouse floor. Intoxicated by the motion, we forget all the risks. And then the world turns... And somebody falls off.

And, Oh God, It’s such a long way down.

Numb with shock, we can only stand and watch as they fall away from us, gradually getting smaller... Receding in our memories until they’re no longer visible.

We gather in cemeteries, tense and silent as if listening for the impact; the splash of a pebble dropped into a dark well, trying to measure its depth. Trying to measure how far we have to fall.

No impact comes; no splash. The moment passes. The world turns and we turn away, getting on with our lives...

Wrapping ourselves in comforting banalities to keep us warm against the cold.

Time’s a great healer.
At least it was quick.

The world keeps on turning.

I also read the opening 3 pages of The Schroedinger's Cat Trilogy, which I adore (and is too long to retype here).


Not actually a party person myself. But I accompanied the ever lovely Erin to a party marking the marriage of the Editor of the Sunday Herald's Review Section to the Press Officer of the Traverse Theatre. Lots of tres cool people, and despite feeling generally out of place I chatted to a few of them before fleeing homewards two hours later.
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