| Winter |
[01|11|09 @ 06:07AM] |
I travelled south to Dorset last week, to negotiate with visiting associates of mine a number of key property acquisitions in the South West. Under the poorly constructed guise of friendly banter, in the unforgiving cold, our negotiations quickly became a test of endurance, as to who could stand the temperature long enough to earn for themselves a more favourable business arrangement. Much to my satisfaction, they relented within a few hours of the second evening, leaving me with the time and inclination to explore and reawaken my deep fascination for the area.
I encountered few fellow wanderers, as most were not foolish enough to explore the landmarks at night, when the county itself seemed to shiver beneath the icy chill. Indeed, the weather was so extreme that I strolled along a stretch of coastline at Sandbanks only to observe that the sea had frozen over for a good twenty metres beyond the shore.
And so it was in quiet solitude that I meandered through the pleasure gardens of Bournemouth and the graveyard at St Peter’s Church before venturing out further to the hill forts of Maiden Castle and Hod Hill. Finally I settled in Weymouth for a few nights of writing and contemplation.
After much deliberation, I have concluded that, notwithstanding my resistance to hypothermia, a few weeks spent further South in Italy is preferable to having my feet frozen down to the ground here in Dorset. By rail, I hope over the course of the next few evenings to make my way to Liguria. In winter, many residents of the small coastal villages flock to the warmer cities, and I can think of no place I would rather be now than perched on one of those hillsides in Vernazza or Corniglia, overlooking the Ligurian Sea.
At the risk of transforming this quiet, dusty old journal into something more than just a string of old memories, I hope to write again soon.
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| Merrick |
[08|08|08 @ 06:30AM] |
"It's an old spell, David; it binds you to come to me, it binds the spirits who listen to me to drive you towards me. It binds them to fill your dreams and your waking hours with thoughts of me. As the spell builds in power it presses out all other considerations, and finally there is one obsession, that you come to me, and nothing else will do... 'May he be a slave to me, may he be the faithful servant of my designs, may he have no power to refuse what I have confided to you, my great and faithful spirits. May he fulfil that destiny which I choose of my own accord.'"
It was on a particularly bleak night in London that I received Lestat’s call and the sound of it, which interrupted the otherwise perfect silence of my room, sent an eerie chill through my body. It was an enduring trait from my mortal days that the sound of a phone ringing at odd hours filled me with a sense of foreboding. I glanced at the phone before answering it, slowly awakening myself from the quiet solitude in which I had been enmeshed for several days. Lestat’s voice on the line was strained and his tone conveyed a sense of urgency and a glimpse of his underlying sorrow more faithfully than his words. I sensed instantly that something was terribly wrong. Perhaps I had sensed it before he had called. "Paris? Yes, of course. I’ll be there."
I very quickly made arrangements to travel to Paris. Most flights had been grounded on account of the weather, but a train would have me there in a few hours, just after midnight. While this mode of transport was convenient, it did little for my sanity, as I sat in solitude for the duration of the journey, staring blankly as the landscape passed me by and wondering what could have inspired Lestat’s obvious distress. I tried to tell myself that there was no sense in dwelling on it - that the possibilities were endless - but I knew that they were not. The first clue was, of course, that he was calling from Paris, the city adopted by Louis and Merrick as their home. And then, there was her failure to answer her phone. My insides had begun to churn.
I found Lestat in the apartment that I knew belonged to Louis and Merrick, on the Champs Elysees. He met me at the door to the building, embracing me briefly but forcefully, before taking the stairs with me. I could feel Louis’ presence, but all other voices and heartbeats were foreign to me. Traces of Merrick were everywhere, none so overwhelming as the Chanel perfume that had so intoxicated me in days gone by. Now, it inspired a faint queasiness and the tension between us was quickly mounting. She wasn’t merely absent from the room. The very lack of her was a powerful presence in itself, demanding to be witnessed and understood. Miserably, I conceded that there was a reason he hadn’t told me where she was. There was a reason that I hadn’t asked.
“She’s dead,” I declared, before he could speak a word. He stood and stared at me a moment and then nodded. “David, I’m sorry.” The bare truth and simplicity of his words were unbearable. Why? Why could he not obscure the heartbreak of it with some artful embellishment? Where were his jibes, now? Where were his sardonic asides? Why, of all things, must we face this with nothing but the cruelty of the miserable truth? I turned from him, seating myself in a chair that faced away from him and resting my head in my hands. I no longer saw her as the woman that she had become, but as the child who first came to me, orphaned and vulnerable and powerfully enchanting. That child was dead. I had killed her - we all had! Only she had put the loaded guns into our hands and coaxed us into destroying what we loved.
“She’s dead. Merrick is dead.” I repeated the words, punishing myself with the agony of hearing them aloud. “How?”
Lestat came and sat opposite me and calmly, he recounted her final hours. His anguish became palpable as, with tears rising, he told of her sacrifice. His lip quivered as he praised, poetically, the grace and dignity that she carried with her from this world to the next. I remained perfectly still, stirring only upon hearing how calmly and resolutely she had taken her own life. This was her, so called, ‘sacrifice’. There was a long silence after he had finished. Sadness and anger and misery were compounding in a place so deep inside me that no one else would ever reach it. My soul would be forever tainted with bitterness in memory of the mercilessness with which she came to be one of us, and the cruelty with which she left us behind.
Merrick had loved me in her time; of that, I had no doubt. But it was a love that was as selfish as it was capricious, rooted in her perception of the world around her as little more than a backdrop for her machinations. It was a love that imparted desperation above comfort and longing without hope of consolation. It was a love that had long been obscured by the vast shadow of her own self-seeking ambitions. Though I had always defended her from my own condemnation as vigorously as I defended her against others who despised her for her manipulations, her betrayal of my trust and my love weighed heavily on me till the very end. And now, as though she had not brought enough suffering to those who loved her with her untimely transformation, her untimely demise would be the last twist of the knife.
In taking her own life, she extinguished any last hope of forgiveness. It seemed to me now, in this, my darkest of moments, that despite all that she was and all that she meant to me, that was her only legacy. My heart was overwhelmed with sadness and utterly devoid of compassion. She did this. She ruined herself. She ruined everything.
“She died as she lived,” I said to Lestat, in a voice that was quiet and bereft. “In fulfilment of the destiny that she chose of her own accord. I pray she rests in peace.”
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| Echoes from the Past |
[05|28|08 @ 07:57PM] |
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It feels strange to me that all the ghosts that haunt me are yet living.
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[04|27|08 @ 04:23AM] |
The days are becoming longer, and the nights, warmer. My desire to keep the fireplaces burning has produced a stifling heat within my home. While I would prefer to find comfort in these old familiar rooms of mine, I am beginning to feel claustrophobic. I am beginning to feel restless. I am longing to set myself free from my lethargy and to be more than what I have become.
Where is young Samuel when I need him here to help me laugh at myself?
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| Lost Soul |
[03|04|08 @ 10:28PM] |
The air was so chilled that it burned my cheeks and my ears. It had been another merciless December night, and I walked at a faster pace than usual to escape, not only the cold, but the impending sunrise. St Steven’s Parliament Clock Tower advised that it was after seven, an ominous time for any vampire to be walking the streets of London. It was time to hurry home.
As I retreated towards my London apartment, the world around me began to come to life. Smart looking men in business attire glanced up at me momentarily before retreating back into self importance. A man and woman jogged passed and smiled, trailing a hapless, panting Alsatian in tow. I could hear a burgeoning symphony of car horns disturbing the calm in the direction of Trafalgar Square. The gears of London were in motion. This was as close as I would ever come to knowing how life unfolded once the world basked in daylight.
The night had begun as any other, and almost ended in the same way as an endless procession of nights before it. But it was at that moment, as I stood unknowingly at a great junction of my past and my future, that fate intervened with her steady hand.
The knowledge registered somewhere in my consciousness that I was not alone. There was no thrum of an immortal heartbeat, and yet my instincts told me, as sure as they told me that daylight was near, that another vampire was close.
I stopped and turned, searching out the source of this lingering presence. I soon saw him, though the moment he turned to face me I doubted my judgment. He stood across the street, staring back at me, his trembling hands searching for warmth inside his pockets. Surely, I told myself, this young man, with his flushed cheeks and modest gaze, was no vampire. What vampire could seem so soft and warm? And yet my intuition told me that he was. His fangs were visible to my eyes between his parted lips. He was tormented by his thirst, though he possessed no knowledge of how to sate it. With his alluring eyes, the blue of a summer sky, he was one of the most perfectly made creatures I had ever seen; and yet, the most poorly made immortal.
His sorrow was haunting. He looked like a child who had wandered too far from home, and could not find his way back again; and yet he possessed a youthful dignity that prevented a child’s tears from giving way.
The night was waning. There was no longer time to hear what pain weighed upon him. It was time for him to go to his rest, as would I. I turned away and kept walking. Half way down the block I looked back, but he had not moved. Defying my growing concern for him, I walked on.
Minutes later, I was safe in the dimmed, sealed isolation of the apartment. The heavy shutters protected me from the penetration of light, ensuring I could see out the day in safety. My fatigue alerted me to the imminent sunrise, and yet, I simply stood and stared at the bed. I couldn’t stop thinking of him. His sadness permeated my thoughts and I feared the worst.
I lifted the remote from my pocket, pressed the button, and the shutters began to rise. I stood by the window and beheld a vision of night’s final moments that I rarely allow myself to see. When I peered down towards the shop front where I had seen him, and saw that he had gone, I felt that the worst of my fears had been alleviated. And yet, I could still taste his sadness; I could feel the weight of a misery that was not my own.
I searched him out, my vision beginning to blur. I finally found him scaling the side of the building, climbing towards the roof, searching out the sun rather than taking refuge from it. There was no doubt or hesitation; there was no time to think. The silence was shattered with the glass window as I broke through it and threw myself back into the night, soaring down towards him.
He was unconscious on the rooftop by the time I reached him. I tore off my coat and wrapped it round him, lifting him into the air just as the first beams of sunlight began to burn. My limbs weakened and I feared that I would lose my hold on him, but somehow, through sheer force of will, we reached the shattered window and plummeted through it.
I fell upon the bed with him, gathering up my coat to search out the remote for the shutters. In my final waking moments, I must have found it. The next thing I remember is opening my eyes at sunset to his peaceful, perfect form, still sleeping beside me.
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| In the Midst of our Lives, We Die |
[12|29|07 @ 09:46AM] |
Some think of us as ‘eternal’. We are not.
Why would we be? Because our years are measured in greater numbers than those of our mortal counterparts? Eternity by definition cannot be measured by years, or in numbers. We could combine all our years, months, weeks, days, hours and still not touch upon that which is eternal. Time is a different currency altogether; it cannot be compared.
Twice in my life, I have witnessed that which is eternal, and on both occasions the revelation occurred in an instant within an instant; a mere drop in the vast ocean of time and space. And yet, so transcendent were these revelations, so sublime, that the ages could never erode their meaning, and the world would never be the place that it was before them. They rose above joy, fear, love... They simply were, and always would be; irrevocable moments of purity and perfection.
My mortal death was the first. In the arms of my maker, as my mortal spirit fused with his immortal one, I was plunged into the chaos of a pure life force, and time lost all its significance. I watched the fabric of the world transform as though I was no longer a part of it, and in that instant I understood what consciousness truly was. Living in that moment was enough to make me eternal; I was no longer a slave to the linear passage of time.
The second transpired at the moment I imparted that spark of life unto another. It was something I had promised myself I would never do. Countless times, I refused her. And yet I loved her, and a love as deep as my love for her could inspire any manner of sin. In a hot blooded moment of need and callow hope, I succumbed to her desire. Again, I felt the world shift beneath my feet. Time stood still and she was everywhere; in my senses, in my blood, in my crimson streaked hallucinations of what might have been between us. I felt helpless, as though destiny, or some other force much greater than myself was unravelling, and no choice or judgment of mine could have the power to stop it.
If you could only understand the tenderness we shared when it was over, and there was peace again; if you could only see the way she looked at me, and clung to me, as I bathed her in the Ganges.
We promised each other everything; unity, solidarity, friendship, companionship, but the dreams faded as quickly as we gave them voice. I wanted to show her the light, I wanted her to be my light, but she was so swiftly drawn into the darkness of our existence that she was gone before I truly realised I was losing her. We all thirst for blood, but her thirst was insatiable, and infused with a lust for violence and horror that left me grief stricken for the sweet, compassionate soul that had been sacrificed because of my weakness. She was gone.
I remember packing my bag for London alone, and wanting to laugh at the sheer absurdity of hope, faith, love. Once again, I was destiny’s fool.
I still think of her every night. I relive that moment, the fusion of her soul and mine. Memories are transient and malleable; mirages of perception and illusion. But that was truth. I recall the fulfilment of it and savour its flawless beauty, knowing that we reached for eternity together and touched it, finding completion side by side.
I hope that wherever she is, she knows that I will always think of what we shared with awe and reverence, and that I will always love her.
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| Ramayana |
[05|01|07 @ 10:05PM] |
All my life, I strived to touch the deepest, darkest secrets of the Earth and its history; this was my only ambition, and one that I pursued until the very end. I devoted the best part of my mortal existence to understanding the world’s greatest mysteries, until the night that I became one.
I thought I had been a man obsessed, but I knew nothing of obsession. Not until I came to know her. She was more beautiful to me than anyone I had known, more enthralling than any legend I had explored, more secretive than any spirit I had unearthed. In the end, the greatest mystery became, “How can I love you as much as I do?”
I was well into my immortal years, when by chance we happened to find each other. She had that energy about her; the sort of electricity that seems to emanate from a different life source altogether. When she was content, I was content. When she was happy, so was I. But when she smiled for me, masking the pain of her broken heart, I couldn’t smile back. I kissed her. I told her I loved her. I promised her I would show her the path to fulfilment, and walk it with her, hand in hand.
Her eyes shimmered and her smile became playful. We both knew who was leading who.
For reasons I will never understand, arrows seemed to fly at her from all directions. Some of them were fired by spite, some by jealousy, and though she knew she was the victim of injustice, she never really learned to protect herself from them. I tried, but how could I shelter her when it was her openness and independence that made her the woman I adored? It was not what she wanted. It was testimony to her strength of character that she never made any apologies for who she was and always stood her ground.
The time came when I lost count of her tears, and couldn’t bear to watch them fall any longer. I made up my mind. My refuge would be her refuge; it was time to take her home.
Love is ignorant and hopeful and blind. I never imagined that the final, fatal arrow would be mine.
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| The Sacred Grove |
[02|07|07 @ 12:28PM] |
When I was a boy of five or six, growing up in India, I would climb the uncomfortably high staircase on my hands and knees when the governess wasn’t looking, and stealthily make my way into the area of the house that was otherwise forbidden to me. This wing consisted of the master bedroom, my father’s study, my mother’s dressing room, various storerooms and the library, all of which seemed like treasure troves to a young boy’s enquiring mind, and were, in fact, filled with artefacts of the most fascinating kind. The library would always be my first port of call, and often my last, as I was usually found out and frog-marched back to the nursery quite expediently.
But in those few moments that I escaped undiscovered, and moved triumphantly into the realm of dusty old books and precious manuscripts, I would always go directly to the very same place. Under one of the bookshelves my mother kept a large leather portfolio, longer and wider than I was at the time, overflowing with papers and loosely tied up with string. I had observed her browsing through its contents once, and despite assurances to the contrary, I truly believed that gave me the right to discover and re-discover them on my own.
So, with considerable effort, huffing and puffing, I would pull out the enormous portfolio, and attempt in vain to untie the string before giving up and breaking it with my teeth. Then I would open up the leather folds to reveal the vast wonders within.
With eyes wide, I would take in the lavish depictions of a blue god and pretty goddess speaking, embracing, dancing and walking together in the grove, amongst flowers and dancing and music. There were scenes of dalliances and naked bodies entwined that, though unclear to me, intensified my breathless fascination. Every image was verdant, luxuriant and a lesson to my young and untested senses, and I would wonder if such a place truly existed where peacocks roamed, flowers hung from trees in vines of pink, white, red and yellow, and gods and goddesses touched and kissed in the shadows of the branches. If it did I wanted to find it and be the child of those two such breathtaking divinities.
Where there were foreign words written on the page, I would turn it over and find, written in pencil on the back, numerous lines of poetry in my mother’s hand. I would trace my finger over, word by word, sounding them out in whisper,
"If you speak, moonlight gleaming on your teeth
Dispels the dread darkness of fear.
Let your moon face lure my nightbird eyes
To taste nectar from your quivering lips!"
They were words that challenged me, confused me and then left me enchanted.
Though I didn’t quite understand it in these terms at the time, what I was looking at was a priceless collection of miniature paintings dating back to the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries. Some of them were painted in my parents’ lifetime, some much earlier, but they all carried a common theme, and this was the love affair of the Hindu god Krishna and his consort, the goddess Radha.
This went on as I grew older, until after some time, I was left to explore the gardens on my own, or holding the hand of a servant with large dark eyes and an earring in her nose like the goddess in the painting, and I breathlessly discovered that all my life I had lived in a fortress that sat amidst the very paradise I had gazed at and longed for, for so long.
There were vines, peacocks, and trees with pink, white, red and yellow flowers. There were ornate terraces and lotus flowers that floated on sparkling blue ponds. There were hills and exotic scents that wafted into the garden on the softly blowing wind. This was my first realm of adventure, my dearest sacred place, and so it remained throughout my childhood and beyond, and indeed, so it remains to this very day.
But it was not until recently that I brought my Radha into this place, and tasted the nectar from her quivering lips.
To be continued...
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[02|02|07 @ 04:03PM] |
I know I've been quiet. I'm just letting everyone know that I'm still alive. Well... in a manner of speaking.
There's more to come.
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| Death on the Ganges |
[09|13|06 @ 11:32PM] |
They reached to the sky, the sea of mourners, the clear crystal silence of the night now shattered by their symphonic wailing. They writhed with timeless misery, beating their breasts, pulling their hair, their faces washed with grief. Their eyes were as red as those gazing back at me from my mirror of despair. He was so young. He was so very young.
The beauty of the river became perverse to those who knew him. It was now frightful to those who loved him. The river that gave life now consumed it, lapping at the shrouded body that succumbed to its waters - so young - weighed upon the woven raft like flesh and blood turned to stone. The Ganges yawned and breathed him in. He was lost to them, and tears fell for every moment to be endured without him.
Candles floated upon the rippling surface, following the course of the gentle current, lighting up the path to eternal darkness. Farewell, young one. Each flame was a kiss goodnight.
Each flame was a burning truth. A truth that burned me. A vanquished soul that thrived on my remorse. And in those brief moments I suffered the oppression of all the remorse I had denied myself, bearing the whole on my shoulders and falling beneath its weight. He was so young.
Reckless thief. From his perch upon the garden wall he had spied the artefact glistening through the glass of my window. From his perch upon the garden wall he had clasped his hand as though the treasure already rested in his palm. I awoke to the sound of his heart, lurching with satisfaction, that this gift, fashioned by his ancestors and stolen by the hand of an Englishman would be restored to a child of its creators. This emblem of his past would end the suffering that had fashioned a sinner from the child he had been not so long ago.
I caught his bloodied wrist as it burst through my window, his broken fingers flailing. He begged for his life, but it was already claimed. By the time I drew him through the glass and to my body, he knew, and his sweet surrender begged tears from my cold, unyielding eyes. And still, I could not give them.
Sinners soothe the conscience, but young blood is sweeter, and there are nights when the man you think you know is far too tired and far too old to fight a war that is virtually lost.
And now the sea of mourners parted as I walked amongst them, bearing a sadness from which their humble souls were mercifully immune. Never had I felt such raw emotion. Never had I felt such anguish at having extinguished a young life. A life so very young.
I wanted to linger till the sun rose over the Ganges. I wanted to witness his rebirth with my own eyes. I wanted hope. But in my heart I have always known that hope is a fool’s fancy.
Morning comes and darkness reigns until it’s time to begin again.
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| The River Ganges. |
[06|01|06 @ 10:41PM] |
Its murky waters flow through the Himalayan valleys to the North Indian plains, slicing Bangladesh on its passage to the Bay of Bengal.
One in twelve of the world’s inhabitants surround its catchments, pouring refuse and waste into its waters whilst worshipping on its shores.
I watch them from the large open windows of my home, and from the shadows of the huts that line the embankments. I watch them look up into the night, reflecting on the great goddess, Ganges, the name sake of the river that stretches out into the horizon. I watch them undress slowly, unravelling their bodies like a gift to the heavens.
And into the water they steep themselves, their movements a prayer for the forgiveness of sins and the blessings of moksha, or salvation.
There are those that I see return, in time, wrapped in shrouds and carried atop painted wooden palanquins, flanked by wailing mourners. Upon the surface they are lowered, and set upon their final earthly journey, surrounded by a sea of offerings; candles and marigolds.
The spectacle is beautiful, exotic and fiercely macabre.
When the voices are silent and the devotees are gone, the river is mine to worship.
The white faces beneath the water call to me, welcoming me home. The gaunt, skeletal fingers curl into my hair and round my wrists as I sink down into the water. I claw into the soil, boring down into the mud, the force of the water and the resistance of the earth testing the limits of my strength.
How can I describe the peace I find in the darkness? I slumber with sleeping spirits for days at a time, wondering, on occasion, if I shall ever have cause or desire to return to the surface again.
With every night that passes, I grow more estranged from the world of the living. I am seduced by the stillness and the isolation of my submerged burial.
Existing at the cusp of the world of the dead and the world of the living; this could be where I belong.
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| New Beginnings |
[01|01|06 @ 02:47PM] |
A very happy new year to you all. I hope that 2006 brings you happiness, prosperity and the very best of luck.
My resolutions are, firstly, to locate and reign in the patience that has so readily escaped me in my latter years, and secondly, to knock down the emotional walls that I have spent a lifetime building around myself. Easier said than done, perhaps even impossible, but I'm told that is the correct formula for new years resolutions.
Thanks to the two who put a great deal of time, effort and talent into renovating my livejournal layout. You have contributed your skills where mine are so sorely lacking, and for that and all your support in 2005, you have my gratitude.
Best wishes for a safe end to the holiday season. Take care, all of you.
David.
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| India |
[12|28|05 @ 10:57PM] |
Delhi is a hard place to visit. It is as difficult for me to be here now as it ever was.
My intention is not to belie the beauty, colour or brilliance of the city, and indeed it can be beautiful. There is an inner calm to be found beyond the honking cars and overflowing smoky streets, if you know where to look for it. There are temples, gardens, hidden monuments tucked away in dreamy and oblivious luxury beyond the crazed commotion that is the perpetual curse of the central districts. But wherever I go, as I look around me, I am reminded of a nation that is wounded, and a capital that bears the deepest and most disturbing of its many scars.
Before you hear of the magical India of my childhood, the India I love, I must make this tribute to the men, women and children of this land who are so sadly lacking in the good fortune that accompanied my entry into this world. There are so many who have not been blessed with the capacity to scale walls or procure secret fortunes in order to make their escape. There are so many who will never transcend the slums and grimy streets into which they are compelled to enter and leave this world in one miserable and uninterrupted cycle. In their shimmering eyes their suffering is tangible, and in their thoughts their confusion is profound. Despite knowing no better than the misery that they have always endured, by some cruel and persistent instinct, they long for a better life for themselves and for their children.
One can dwell upon numbers and calculations, but there are times when the reality of a situation must be seen to be believed. Standing amidst the squalor of one shanty town, amongst the stench of compounded refuse and the rumbling of empty bellies, is a thousand times a greater blow to my peace of mind than the actual knowledge that over a thousand shanty towns house some three million souls in Delhi alone.
What I see is a ruptured society; a culture that has been pulled apart by political power brokers for so many years that that the perpetrators and saviours of this nation have been wholly and haphazardly confused. Crumbling infrastructure, a lack of accountability in government, corruption, poverty and an outdated, oppressive class system are the burdens that the citizen must bear, while despair and utter demoralization have left them powerless to bring about change.
This has been the cycle for so long and this will go on despite the onward push of development and economic growth. It will be the cycle until national pride is made accessible to the common man and woman, regardless of their ethnic origins. It will be the cycle until respect and value are once more bestowed upon the individual. It will be the cycle until the people of India are given the education, resources and dignity required to revolutionise their way of life.
It is so easy for us Englishmen to write beautiful passages about India and to think wondrous thoughts. It is so easy for us to pass off the misery that is evident in the streets and the marketplaces as little more than a facade for the splendour that lies beneath. But this is a terrible fraud, and one made at the expense of the people who live out the reality of this tormented nation. It is crucial that we observe the darkness where there is light, and the ugliness where there is beauty, because only then can we truly understand the soul of any place or the depth of any person. This country and its people deserve at least that much.
This is my introduction to my adventures in India. I hope that you will join me as the journey continues.
David.
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| The LL and a Swift Departure. |
[12|02|05 @ 11:51PM] |
The London Library was once my favourite place to fall asleep. There was a stillness within those walls that I could not experience anywhere else in the world. Not at the top of a mountain, not in the thick of a forest and not in the vast plains where I would lose myself in remote and lonely expeditions. Escaping into the wilderness was my refuge, my passion and it brought me to life, but it did not give me peace. I found myself, at all times, in silent discourse with the air, the trees and the old, wild spirits that lingered in their midst. But books... books only spoke if one pulled them from their resting place and compelled them to open up and reveal their secrets. Otherwise they remained still, waiting patiently to be explored and enjoyed, or not, from their small allotment on the shelf.
And so, in some strange metaphorical (or delusional) way, the greater the number of books I was surrounded by, the more silent the world became. And if you have been to the LL, you will recall the thousands upon thousands of books, neatly assembled on open access shelves that fill seven full floors to the brim. And it wasn’t merely a notional sense of being surrounded by them. The solid iron floors were punctured with holes, so that from the basement (where the topographical studies are kept) one could glance up at the kaleidoscope of tiny apertures that, when focused upon, proffered a glimpse of the seventh floor. There were leather spines and loaded shelves as far as the eye could see.
My preferred place to read, or to pretend to read while I slumbered, was The Reading Room. The Reading Room might easily have been confused with The Sleeping Room, given the comfortable leather chairs, the warm lighting and the stern looking fellow behind the desk in the corner with the world ‘SILENCE’ etched into a sign that sat upon his desk. Snoring didn’t count. One could not demonstrate prejudice against innocent sleepers for a transgression that was beyond their control.
This was, of course, many years ago. The library itself has been in existence for well over a century and a half. For those of you who are vague enough to be unsure, that makes it older than I am. Though it wasn’t as expansive as it is today, it was a well respected institution even in the days when I researched, studied and slept within its confines. Until recently, the antiquated functions and mechanisms of the library remained largely unaltered.
And so it was with some surprise that I re-entered the old building and that long-since-passed era of my life just a few days ago. With a touch of uncharacteristic melodrama, I almost brought my hand to my eyes to shield them from the ghastly bright red t-shirts with “London Library” scrawled across them, worn by every member of staff, presumably to remind the senile old scholars who frequent the establishment where exactly they are. You know, in case it should suddenly happen to slip their minds.
I discovered that gone are the days of card-indexes, manual searching and Luddite charm. The LL has now joined the evil electronic empire. And sadder still, the meditative quiet of The Reading Room had been replaced by the steady and pervasive thrum of a dozen laptop computers.
I can, at least, report that there is an old world aesthetic that has survived the recent and somewhat disturbing modernization of the LL, and I stayed long enough to read a fascinating 1792 publication by Thomas Forrest called 'A voyage from Calcutta to the Mergui Archipelago, lying on the east side of the Bay of Bengal : describing a chain of islands, never before surveyed.' Twice. But then, I’m a fast reader.
As I left the building, I decided that I had enjoyed my last taste of London for the time being. I made up my mind to return to the Manor long enough to settle my affairs, and entrust the caretaking of the estate to my sweet but savvy young lady friend. Following that, I would set off to the land of my childhood. There were memories I wished to relive there, some more recent than others.
The meaning of quiet is largely unknown in India. There is magic, colour and movement in the most secluded spaces and in the darkest shadows. A sign with the world “SILENCE” could not be bought in Delhi with a bag of gold coins. It would be a crime against the spirit of the city.
Though I told myself it would be a welcome contrast to the empty rooms of the Manor, or the unwelcome progression of the LL, inwardly I was unsure. For the first time since I was a boy, I felt awkward and apprehensive about leaving my home. I feared that after decades of enjoying my stolen youth, I was beginning to show my age.
Was the world still my oyster?
I would soon find out.
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| October 31 |
[10|31|05 @ 12:37AM] |
Happy Halloween and a Blessed Samhain to you all.
Though it required some effort on the part of the person accompanying me, have been persuaded to dress up for a Halloween masquerade this year. I'm still quite stunned to think that I agreed to it. His pouting lips are my weakness. It must be love.
I hope you all have a splendid evening and I look forward to reading about how you celebrated.
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| The Manor |
[10|05|05 @ 01:04AM] |
I stepped over the threshold and the floorboards creaked a familiar tune, welcoming home the master of the manor. My footsteps echoed as I hung my coat upon the hook on the wall. The fires had been lit, the house aired, but the rooms were now empty.
Almost empty. I knew that there were voices that would play upon my fancy as I made my way through the hallways, and faces that would stare back at me when I looked for them with an open mind. My house is haunted by the persistent lingering of my own memories.
This time, however, I would not be alone with them, with no choice but to dwell upon old ghosts in every waking moment. There would be other voices and other footsteps, tangible and soothing to my lonely state of mind.
I heard the first of them coming up behind me. As I turned to look at the gentleman who approached, I reflected once again that he seemed younger than he was. He scanned the interior with wide eyes, full of exuberance as he took in the lavish decor of the foyer and the great staircase that led to the upper levels. His expression softened into a perfect picture of tenderness when his gaze returned to me. The cold night air coloured his sculpted cheeks and the tip of his nose with an almost unnatural glow, the wind having blown his hair into an alluring disarray of dark tresses.
I moved towards him, meeting him half way, my arms resting loosely round his waist. He whispered a few quiet words of gratitude and kissed me. I smiled and relieved him of his coat. The moment was infinitely surreal, and yet, I cannot help but smile when I think back on it.
So commenced my belated homecoming, and in such bliss I have remained, with my dear companion, a young friend and an impending visit from my maker to keep my spirits high. There will be time to relate further details when I am not otherwise and so pleasantly occupied. Your patience is much appreciated.
Warm regards to you all.
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[09|18|05 @ 04:19AM] |
Yes, I'm still here. And still too damn busy for my own good.
I will be back soon with something a little more substantial.
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| Meeting my maker. |
[08|25|05 @ 10:58PM] |
There are times when I am unwilling to let go of my pain, for fear there will be nothing left when it is gone. There times when anger is my only emotional bond to the world. There are times when I lose myself so hopelessly in a place that has no walls, no floor, no ceiling, nothing but a tense, oppressive force that keeps me suspended there. I am alone. Misery is, after all, the purest form of selfishness.
I looked into his eyes, as though I was breaking through a cocoon of introspection that had kept me trapped inside myself for weeks… months… I could not know how long. I looked at him as though I was seeing him for the first time. I looked at him and wondered if his eyes had always been so blue, so brilliant. Had they always glittered like moonlight on the waves? Had they always been so dangerous and utterly magnificent, like a thunderous sea in the midst of a storm? I wanted to drown in that sea, be thrown by that storm, and I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him to me as though it were truly possible.
I felt a dull ache in my chest at being with him, wanting to be nearer to him, and my kisses fell upon his cheeks, his lips, his lashes, before I could take control of myself. And when I could take control of myself, I refused. It was too perfect a moment. And though he barely spoke a word, his arms enfolded me with such strength that I had no fear that the love I gave was returned to me.
We remained there, interwoven, until the surf came up to meet us. His hair, in exquisite disarray, blew softly against my face as I whispered in his ear that I loved him. That I loved him more than he would ever know.
He was silent still, with tears in his eyes.
Moments later, we were entangled still, lying on the shore, moving together in the sand, once again at one with the splendour that surrounded us. There was a pulse that throbbed within us and around us, nature’s heartbeat, and we were part of it.
A part of me wanted to think of the nights that would follow… of the promises that might be finally fulfilled, of the sound of his voice lulling me to my rest, of those eyes casting their spell upon me over and over again. But another part of me knew that there was every danger that the candle that burned for us in that moment would soon ignite and spectacularly explode, bringing down our home once again.
And so I stopped looking and started feeling. The way his fingertips against my cheek as he kissed me… that was all that mattered, nothing else. There was something pure about it. Something true.
The bridge, when crossed, would be crossed together. And besides, we had not yet come to it.
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| The Beach |
[08|15|05 @ 05:03AM] |
The monster that we fear the most is the one that lives inside ourselves. This is a universal truth.
We touch upon this truth in the moments when our minds wander, and our thoughts skew, and we wonder what horrors twist and turn in that private place inside ourselves that we dare not disturb. We become haunted by menacing thoughts that seep into consciousness… thoughts that linger, and churn, and blend, until we find ourselves obsessed with the fear of how far down those dark and cavernous regions of our soul descend.
And this was the heavy burden that weighed down upon my soul that night, walking through the shadows as I had done so many nights before, with no beacon to guide me, no faith to move me and no soul to give me comfort. There is such a thing as darkness within darkness, and those who have felt it know what it is to be denied both the light of hope and the comfort of emptiness. To feel everything and to feel nothing. To know oneself and to fear oneself. To be trapped in a nightmare that is guilt and shame.
I wondered where the angel was that would wash the blood from my hands and the salt spray from my tired eyes. I may have whispered her name. But all that appeared before me was a vast and angry ocean, which, in my stupor, I looked upon as all the tears that I had never allowed myself to shed.
I thought about throwing myself into it, and laughed. If only it were that simple. If only it was in me to lay down my guns and surrender, even if there was a way.
But I knew I would never leave him.
And he knew it too, from where he watched me, perched on a rock beyond the shore. He was laughing with me. At me. He wasn’t, but I made myself believe that he was to keep from flying to him, to be with him, where every treacherous fibre of my being wanted to drive me. But the sound of his laughter echoing in my mind slowed me down to a gentle pace, and with my hands behind my back I approached him, baiting my breath for the sound of his voice.
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| Quiet please. |
[08|08|05 @ 05:38AM] |
Important facts to note:
It is possible to wake up on the wrong side of grave. Some evenings are not worth waking up for at all. Headaches may still occur on a regular basis. I keep to myself, but I am not a heartless automaton.
I dare to hope that what I want out of all of this still matters.
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