Posted on November 7, 2007


A story is a way of finding shape in ectoplasm.

There is only the present moment.   Something that has no frame, no limit.  To be in the midst of an event is to be locked out of it as something that one can know.  Something that can be pinned down, described.  It is still happening.  The oily stain of now flows outwards, the stone dropped.  Its rainbow efflorescence fascinating, as in the question: what will it turn into?  It fixes one’s attention.  The cat’s-paw surface is suddenly swollen smooth; what is – that the earth’s stolen dirt should spread endlessly over the water and even out over the streets, in an insult but like the colours in a photographic negative: clear ullulating oil in the dark – then to an empty street corner the orange light shining down in a blanket.

Propeller stutterings full of void sounds, magnetos, a rimless mirror; falling through the anonymous, the asylum-like that run off in all directions hollow and echoing, the shout with what may be a warning, which when you enter the place then it proves not to be but for a coat on the back of a chair. 

He congeals

from what had seemed sheets

of fallen rainwater

on the pavement between stores

– Thom Gunn ‘The Menace’

Posted in: Metaphysics