Shrove Tuesday

28.2.95/Pancake Day/T.Austin

Brushing up with the past:

The old hurt gathers moss as enigmas take hold and the persona
establishes news of my associations with the past. "I know very well
how I got my name". Revengers' gossip proceeds over the phone as a
university group meets for a dinner-party re-union. More than one
re-union. Remembered names haunt me behond the seductive strangers that
we may have been, not able to persue free association with our
friendship. Is this the thity-something fate that has befallen me, the
inescable link with that old set of gossip values, a fresh chance to
come to terms with my past for all times sake.
I fear the priviledge she may have, to information concerning my past,
beyond my control yet requesting safety of secret silence.
A case of the enclosing circles of London social life, the
dinner-party circuit. It shouldn't bother me, us, but it does with a
brutal nostalgia, a nagging pain that I'm lined with inadequacy. I
await the next chapter with shifting unease, with tender involvement.
Praying that it will not kill passion. A freshness that was held at
Angel Rise, that captivated us beyond all these names and the pained
familiarity. As she says we haven't had the chance to uncover the
mysterious armour that is our unique device of growing knowledgeable
together. It has been knocked down before us by our fondness of falling
into names and their allied meanings. A nonentity they may still be if
we brush them away like settled dust and uncover our unique selves that
they both embellish and tarnish.
What attracted me to them is what she asks. Intellect comes readily to
mind.

Thirty-something meets sit-com. Branagh meets Terry and June. The story
continues, we are unavoidably linked. Inseperable by these mad
associations. The pancake of fate is tossed high and lands sticky in my
pan again. How can Love grow between us? We have so much to say first.
Or better now not to even pay heed to it, build that elusive private
thing, build our own secret hide-away.

1.3.95/St David's Day/Ash Wednesday

Shrive: Hear confession of, assign penance to, and absolve.

Ansa-Fone: A message of similar impulsivness received. Saved is the
self that reacted. More talk, growing sensual together, affirming
independence by sacrificing all the pre-amble. Rambling through
philosophical thoughts on relating and how it is fatalistic to consider
the pieces of that creation. We warn each other off the mine-fields of
selfish inadequacies by detailing a verbal map of them. We blow away
the conditions that establish this anxiety of perfect balance, this
"trepidation" of a tender making. Passion holds the reigns of
spontaneous combustion, with safety and care not to burn out too soon.
We both tell of the mutual longing to break with timetabled meetings
and get together. We resist, stay in touch with self and the care of
it.

Everything but the Girl played with charm and balance in a BMW driving
miss dosy, gooseberry, unlooking to Paddington station. The beauty of
this is threatening to look upon yet not altogether strange to consider
a common sight. I leave with personal baggage at a main line London
station and now the baggage of that meeting, above mentioned
associations is our travelling companion. Out of the window of the
carriage are fields of fresh coloured rape. No harm done, more glue for
the ensuing union. The destination looms like an embrasing sun
set.

Trepidation. Predicting those embrases, I fear the deconstruction in
love by the cold hands of physical let down. Coming a cropper with
anti-climatic unlonging. Setting the tone of sexual delight, sensual
spontaneity with all our unease to bear. Emotional and physcoligal
strip tease. Desire for a slow withdrawal, pulling of the tender jism
of old loves. Sustaining the veritable soft-on. Fretting over the
strings of body we will inevitably pluck on. Apprehension at the
like-me complications. Flesh worries that sheepishly cower behind the
delicate bravardo of shared pleas and promises.

Stoccato Post-cards of dense projection arrive in safe hands, opening
the box becomes a tricky pleasure. One of a batch does suggest the
future profile of giving words. Outlining immortality by these saving
graces. Mirroring the emotional auto-projection. Collecting for the
treasure trove. An inspired and valued saving of shared words for the
romantic preservation. Love's time capsule in print. Memories of their
ill-landing and mis-read threat with last similar, great love. A lot of
ideas.

Rough Cotton: Going to bed after a spiritual masturbation with pillow
relaxants of plashing tender reach. Holding out against the night. 0891
purity without the skin-suit scene in the car park behind the bar.
Letting the side down to talk this way, not to have made those direct
suggestions that lead from the inane into quick and sure arms. Isolated
from the visual schema that would undo buttons of enigma doubt the
regale sight. Night-wear glossed over with depth in a truly post-modern
fashion. Names for cultural horses. Wild and unridden is the darkness
of this view.

Tennyson: Romping down the gamut of allusive sharing, wanting to play
out the romantic games of battling. A Barthes reader receives a wordy
warning to stay with real meanings. Furiously bright addition to
character advertisement crassly culled from a wall-hanging.
"Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt." come together you may dark
diversities of influence. Grow together you character influences,
enrich their lives. The muses bikker abroad like sub standard rate,
side-line drag queens: "Whatever will be, will be!"

Brown macrame of Suburbia: Hold me tightly under the bay-window of
suburbia. The cul-de-sac of class and culture holds us in tonight
making us up as we go along with this chance meeting. This general
activity of past remeberance.

The First Kiss: Looked after like the sun-set, ready to connect...to be
continued...
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