At the window

atthewindow

he sat by the window again. he often sat there. it was pleasing to him.
he considered the window a superior place to sit. indeed of all the
places he had sat, and over the years there had been a good many, none
could truly match the window. it was quite simply without equal; of
this he was certain. if instructed to produce a booklet on the
respective merits of his various sittingplaces, he would be sure to
reserve his most generous praise for the section which dealt with the
window. of course, he did not delude himself by supposing that such an
instruction would ever be given. heavens, no. the likelihood of this
happening was so minuscule that it would be better to say it did not
exist at all.
the door opened and mother entered. clear off out of it how many times
must i tell you, he said. mother left, muttering. no doubt she would
now hasten to the kitchen and gesticulate to herself among the smears
and the odours. or perhaps she would wrestle the cat into submission
and whisper to it nobody loves me youre all i have left my poor
darling.
to the deepest pit in hell with her. it was nice by the window. there
were things to look at. he could sit at the window and look out,
looking first at one thing and then at another thing. and when he had
looked at one thing and at another thing he might then decide to look
at something else. there were, after all, mounds and mounds of other
things to look at. or he might elect to look again at one thing and at
another thing. on the other hand, he might just look away.
today the things outside the window were predominantly green and brown.
apart that is from those which were grey. and so he began to look at a
brown thing. it was rather large, although by no means the largest
brown thing he had seen. and he had seen a great number of brown things
in his time. in fact the area outside the window was usually infested
with them. yes, there they were, day upon day; lolling about all over
the place like the stinking brown bastards they undoubtedly were.
today's brown thing was best described as a brown thing of average
dimensions and appearance. using his skill in these matters, gleaned
from long hours of diligent study at the window, he estimated its
noteworthy characteristics to be nil. nevertheless it possessed a
certain allure. which is to say that it did not repel him utterly. or
rather, that it did repel him utterly - utterly and heartily, by god -
but that this was the nature of its allure.
he had often entertained the notion of keeping a log of some kind, a
record of the things he saw outside the window. it would consist of
remarks about their colour, their size, the frequency of their
occurence and so on. the influence of climatic conditions, seasonal
changes, lunar phases etc would also be observed and tabulated. in this
way he would eventually compile a bank of fascinating and indispensable
data. it would be the definitive guide to these phenomena, a boon to
layman and scholar alike. and then of course its publication would
launch him upon the world at large. grand prospects, dizzying
potential. but after sober reflection he would admit himself reluctant
to put his plan into operation. for the truth of the matter was this:
that the idea sickened him to the core of his being. the whole project
would become an enormous pain in the tit, inevitably resulting in heap
upon reeking heap of abject misery tedium despair o lord and pronounced
rectal torment. and thus it must be avoided like the pestilence. at all
costs.
there was a tentative knocking at the door. he looked away from the
brown thing. is there no respite, he hissed. he got up and went to the
door; opened it and saw mother. havent i made it plain enough for you
woman i want you to keep your conk well out, he said.
tea its your tea ive brought you tea, she said. she was holding a tray.
there was a mug of thick dark tea on it and a plate covered with a big
checked napkin. he could see the forms of the things beneath the
napkin, the solids beneath the napkin. take your loathsome filth from
my sight, he said.
no its nice youll like it, she said. she began to remove the napkin. he
glimpsed something yellow, rhomboid. move another muscle and youll
regret it, he said. im not interested there is no interest none get it
through your fat head.
you you youre horrible, she said.
you should have thought of that, he said.
he closed the door and sat by the window again. and he began to look at
a brown thing. it was impossible to say if it was the brown thing he
had looked at a moment earlier, or a different brown thing altogether.
on the whole, he thought it seemed familiar. but the curse of it was
that it seemed familiar in one respect only: that it was brown. and he
realised that if he were asked to identify the brown thing he had
looked at a moment earlier he would find himself on shaky ground, on
very shaky ground indeed. in rage and disgust he began to look at a
grey thing.
as he looked at the grey thing he was reminded of an episode from his
former life. he smiled as the memory came to him. as though it were
yesterday, he recalled the occasion upon which he had sown his wild
oat. ah how their pale bodies had writhed in the moonglow like parasite
and host entwined up there on the old creaking scaffolding a stiff gale
from the north keening over his naked fundament and the tempest of lust
gathering and he became rigid that is less flaccid and she champing for
queen and country on his left pap and his right knee the pivot and his
left leg the ballast and with each stroke the scaffolding creaking
krak! &; she mumbling mnnf! &; he hoarsely hrrr! &; the
scaffolding krak! &; she mnnf! &; he hrrr! &; scaffolding
krak! &; she mnnf! &; he hrrr! &; scaffolding krak! &; she
mnnf! &; he hrrr! &; krak! &; mnnf! &; hrrr! &; krak!
&; mnnf! &; hrrr! &; krak! &; mnnf! &; hrrr! &; krak!
mnnf! hrrr! krak! mnnf! hrrr! krak! mnnf! hrrr! krak! mnnf! hrrr! krak!
mnnf! hrrr! etc etc on &; on &; such like &; so forth o the
tempest etc o the passion krak! mnnf! hrrr! krak! mnnf! hrrr! krak!
mnnf! hrrr! krak! mnnf! hrrr! krak! mnnf! hrrr! krak! mnnf! hrrr! krak!
mnnf! hrrr! krak! mnnf! hrrr! krak! mnnf! hrrr! krak! mnnf! hrrr! krak!
mnnf! hrrr! etc etc until at length there came a mighty
krrrrrraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaakkk!and

in the rubble&;sweat&;alleged bliss he cried out in ecstasy

...oof...

a tear came to his eye. dear sally. dear bony toothless hunchbacked
sally. stenching like anything as her strangely bloated and corpsewhite
head ballooned at him through the gloom.
but that day of giddy abandon was long ago. now, wiser and chastened,
he had nothing to do with such foolishness. instead, he sought comfort
at the window.
and what a thing it was to sit at the window. what riotous pageantry.
what a hoot, what a gas. suddenly he resolved that he would never again
stray from the window, that he would from this day forward spurn all
his other sittingplaces: the park, the pavement, the wall, the lawn,
the flowerbed and the doorstep. he would even shun the cupboard beneath
the stairs. only the window could satisfy him. he began to look at a
green thing.
but then as he looked at the green thing it dawned upon him that he
would soon grow weary of the window. yes, he would soon grow weary of
the window and the things he saw outside it: the moving things and the
stationary things, the loud things and the silent things, the things in
light and the things in shade. for he realised, as in truth he had
realised so many times before, that there was one thing he did not like
about the window.

and the one thing
he did not like about the window
was this:

it was a perfectly vile place to sit.

fncxc7,xc9