JANUARY

1 Jan 1966. River Town.

I’ve written nothing for four weeks. Why not? I was waiting for something to happen. Plenty did, but none of it worth recording. Until.

Last night was the most beautiful night of my life. Pleasure is the transition from a lesser degree of perfection to a greater, wrote Spinoza. The pleasure was exactly in the transition.

I spent the day hunting down New Year’s Eve action. No events, no parties. There’s a dance at the Winter Gardens, but I don’t want to go alone. I called at Joan’s, but she’s in Sheffield. Which leaves Madge. I meet Mike in town, skinny, sundark and intense, back from Morocco, playing there with Davey Graham, different tunings, modes, other folk to knit into ours, interesting, I see his spider dancing fingers, say I’ll be in the King’s Arms at 8:30. Into Ed’s, Trevor and Helen, Eric and Barbara, side by side, complacently smiling, settled into their coupledom and family does, I flee. I walked for half an hour, my optimistic route (each has a mood), past our house, past phone boxes. Do I dare phone Madge? Not flattering at 5pm on New Year’s Eve. If she’s doing something she’ll be unbearably patronising, if she’s not and agrees, I’ll pay for it anyway. Into the cold phone box, unfamiliar perfume, stale air, my breath fogging the small panes as I rehearse, dial, ready to press the coin, hold my breath … “This call cannot be connected”. Phew. Damn. I cycle to Geoff’s, he’s at his girlfriend’s. I carry on to Sea Town, cycle slowly along the prom hoping to see one of the Sea Town girls, even slower past Madge’s family b&b – sorry, “Private Guest House” – ‘hi, what a surprise, I was just passing …’ no one. Home. Why not an evening at home? In fifteen minutes I’m dying of boredom. I eat, dress, and am in the King’s Arms at 8pm. At 8:05pm Cathy enters.

Or rather her face appears around the door, a round face, eyes anxious and searching until she sees me, relaxes, lights up even. She is about to hurry over when she remembers, stops, tosses her hair – a long blond wig!, opens her coat – a patchwork dress of famous paintings!! and poses as the cameras flash. Others stare, I applaud, she clutches her coat closed and hurries over, ‘that is so not me!’ ‘It must be, somewhere. Brilliant. A pint?’ Later she says, ‘I almost didn’t come out.’ ‘Me neither.’

We hardly know each other. An art student, interesting-looking, I’ve seen around, a couple of passing conversations, each time cursing myself for not asking her out on New Year’s Eve. Drinks finished, a question, an answer, and we’re heading for the bus station, hand in hand – a new hand, each a memory bank – and on the bus we fill in. She’ll graduate this summer, then teach part-time, give herself five years to crack it, if not, ‘teach full time in a girls’ school, the spinster art teacher, with her knitting, her cats and her failed dreams,’ sad face, not entirely facetious.

The evening is the perfect rainbow curve, midnight the zenith. Neither of us goes to dances, is in touch with pop music, so that, fresh, it flowed over us in a sparkling, multivalent tide, with occasional breath-stopping stabs of emotion. We settled into the pattern: sit, drink, chat, with art school friends, cycling club friends, new acquaintances who graciously include us; then dance, energetically, then in melting embrace, then strictly formal; onto the balcony, to kiss and hold, feel new bodies; then quietly survey the crowd below – Madge with an unsuitable pick-up – kiss some more, her lips soft, uncertain: the grand tarantella approaching midnight, the falling balloons, cheering, and then the unexpectedly moving crossing of arms, hands linked, Auld Lang Syne, and into the New Year. More dancing, drinking, embracing, and then making plans. Someone knows a party, we share a taxi back to River Town, the party house is dark. I take her to our house, lights out, my parents in bed, into the front room, onto the settee in the electric fire glow. But instead of the usual fumbling, grappling urgency, we lie quietly in each other’s arms, eyes roving over the other’s face, absorbing each other’s tenderness and strength, very close, happy. I walk her home through scuds of showers and a wild West wind, “Chimes of Freedom” in my head, up to her tiny house, where she lives alone with her mother, high above the town. At the door I hold her, kiss her, thank her for a perfect evening, she doesn’t understand when I say that we mustn’t spoil it by seeing each other again, so that each holds its perfection in our memories, in our hearts. I stride heroically down the hill, then run, a cavalry charge, into the wind.

2 Jan 1994. Hill Town.

I bought a plant for Stella. She comes at 2:30, says there’s something wrong with her car. We talk and cuddle. She says she’ll think about staying overnight. We go out to the car. The oil filler cap is missing, oil has sprayed everywhere. I cycle to the Esso shop on the Level, nothing, they say try Braddick’s in Bellingham, three miles, they close at five, it’s 4:40. I get there at 4:55, cycle back up the hill with filler cap and oil. Stella is amazed at what I’ve done, unused to it. We fix the car and she goes home to feed the kids.

She phones, says I don’t want to go to Dora’s party, I’ll get some Indian and we’ll spend the evening together. Fine. Phones again, a call from Dora checking she’s coming. I say it’s typical Dora, she won’t even notice you, she just wants as big an audience as possible, but if you don’t go, there’ll be payback, not worth it, go. She says thanks for not pressuring me. She calls in before the party, we drink wine, she says she’ll come after the party but won’t stay the night. I check myself from trying to persuade her, feeling remarkably (for me) unpossessive.

I watch La Boheme, delightfully done, the Bohemians as sixties’ tricksters, listen to Monteverdi’s Vespers at midnight, glorious. At one I come upstairs to write. Stella arrives at 1:30. The party was the usual, an event staged for Dora’s benefit that she doesn’t carry through on. Jane, Jim and Tom were there. Okay, she says, that’s my duty done, big grin – now let’s enjoy ourselves. We dance to Tina Turner’s Foreign Affair, ‘Simply The Best’, talk with Stevie Wonder’s Hotter Than July playing, what a good fit this old music is for us. We lie on the couch, at peace. She says, let’s go upstairs.

In my bedroom, the new bedding and bedside lamp, a wonderful vision of Stella perched naked on the side of the bed, like the Little Mermaid, lit from the side, unfastening her necklace with rapt concentration, head down, busy fingers, her dancer’s body still, the pattern of light and shade, her smooth domed belly, looking like she must have at seventeen, releases the catch, cups the necklace and pours it onto the bedside table like sand, pauses, looks at me with the delight of a triumphant child, holds out her arms. We make love. I come. I say, what about you? She says, when I know you better. We talk, we snooze, she in my arms deliciously, how lovely she feels, how at ease.

At 4:30 she says, I must go. I make tea, we sit in bed in tee shirts, talking. About everything. My done-up bedroom is newly magical, with the new print of Primavera, my desk and daily writing now up here, an alchemical place where mysteries may be woven into the fabric of life, like gold thread into satin.

We have to scrape ice off her car. I say, the neighbours will look out and say, what a shame she has to go to work on a holiday, how good of him to come down and help. I see her off, return to bed with tea. Wonderfully warm, there is a gentle radiance inside me, I feel very well, and entirely at ease.

She rings at one. She got in after her son, the first time. She sounds fine. I feel fine. A feeling not in my heart, but my solar plexus. The heart, “is linked to higher consciousness and unconditional love”; while the solar plexus, “is associated with the emotions, where astral energy enters the etheric field.” I understand. I go for a walk.

3 Jan 1977. London.

Consecrate to the new year a comforting journal, stitched and bound, inviting its disposition when filled on a shelf of identical journals, to take its place, this segment of time, this record of thoughts and events, as the commentary and index to my life. Three days late.

Once my journal was to be a record of ‘reality’. At a time when ‘real life’ was ordinary, banal, lacking any distinction or quality, so that all I sang was – Is this all there is? But when I’d already had ‘experiences’ that were so beyond the ordinary – the moment the string snapped and I was alone, Mont St-Victoire, A New Year’s Eve, perfect moments, peak experiences, heightened awarenesses – that rather than special events in this world, they seemed to be experiences of a ‘more real’ world beyond; as if they had entered through sudden tears in the fabric of this world, that quickly knitted up.

I hoped that by consciously focussing my mind and emotions on recording the ‘ordinary’ I could register the real beyond the phantasmagorical, distill the eternal from the temporal, fix (like a photograph) the transient, see the absolute in the relative. And the early ones – ‘did I not once sit reality on my knee and …’ etc – in that crazy first year of journal writing, do have that quality of unmediated honesty.

But now everything is ordinary. No glimpses, no moments. It is like not being in love. How unused I am to not being in love – the spark from a girl seen once, the flame of infatuation for one just met, the warmth of feeling for one long known, not seen in years. I loved Jane, and let her fill my world. I no longer love her but still she fills my world. She was a bright moon in a firmament of stars. I let her love for me and mine for her draw us ever closer, until she covered, blocked out the stars, and now the inert surface fills my view.

I wake each day bewildered, lost. I wake up and begin to create myself. By putting myself into situations and seeing how I react, gradually through the day I build a simulacrum. It reaches its most finished state – is almost someone – in the evening, with a joint and music and dreams. And dissolves in the night.

So, the ordinary.

4 Jan, 1998. Hill Town.

The storm beats around my wood-lined attic room, rain sharp on glass, muffled on slates, rattling around my heaving boat, head into the wind, storm tossed, always the hope of landing on that island, not a Ulysses, or even a Crusoe, just a single seed, on sand, to grow myself. Except there is no island, no land, as Nietzsche tells us; only the sea, the Dionysian, is real; all the rest, including the boat, is fabrication, illusion, imagination, get used to it. “The raft encumbers. He slips into the water, swims on”. A flash of lightning, the thunder heavy, as if weighed down by the storm. The rising wind shaking leaves, then twigs, then branches, then whole trees, working them free like teeth to crash them over with torn roots. Everywhere the water rising, filling, covering, shiny zinc reflecting the sky. It flows down the empty streets in neat twists and braids, gathers into thick plaits, sweeps over blocked drains, endless rain.

Yesterday I went to Bournemouth. Into Habitat, which still for me represents aspiration. Our contemporaries, with two graduate incomes, filled their first houses from Habitat. We, already swerving, bought second-hand, raided skips and repainted, our one Habitat purchase a metal-framed sofa-bed in red corduroy. Then, with two rising incomes our contemporaries moved on – to Heals? Department stores? Restored antiques? And now, with thirty years of work on the clock, they are beginning to take well-funded retirement. And I am a postman, with years to do. Should I buy something? No, aspiration gone. I do my necessary shopping in cheap store sales.

I have tea and a scone in the department-store tea room, top floor, high above the town, big windows darkening to mirrors. And, as ever in these places, I ponder. Those who move through life on an upward trajectory, build their lives piece by piece, accumulating, all of a piece, so unfaltering that it looks like destiny; yet claim they are just doing what’s expected of them. I want to ask – by whom? But it would be a nonsense question. I envy not their lives but their unquestioning acceptance. And those, like my mother, for whom this is a treat, almost a retreat, the pot of tea, the cake eaten carefully with a fork, slower and slower, every crumb picked up by the pressed tines, gazing through the mirror windows to – where? I never knew, but feared her loss to it, insisted, frightened child, in drawing her back, next to me, for her eyes to focus once more on me. A one-armed man has ordered steak and chips. I leave before he starts.

Onto the sand, my multiple shadows from the promenade lights, the shadows of small stones and sand ripples, the wind sweeps fine sand over the rippled surface like a mist, the waves’ white tops are coloured orange, the wildness of the waves, the stars rushing through streaming clouds. I touch the sea. How do I feel? I don’t.

Helen came on New Year’s Day, passing through from her cousin’s. She arrived at two. We had sex on the faded red corduroy. Tom called and I collected him from his New Year’s Eve party, took him to Jane’s. Helen and I ate the Cranks moussaka I’d made, drank two bottles of Cava, played the Rolling Stones, kissed, took off each other’s clothes, her lovely large body, her long nipples, danced naked in front of the coal fire, sweated, did things she’d never done before, she driven not by passion but curiosity, a new experience, something learned. On the soft rug my head between her legs, tongue working inside her, my cock in her mouth, she sucks, almost gags, sucks on. Afterwards asks, does that mean I’ve done sixty-nine?, an inquiry. What if I’d come in her mouth? She’d have managed it in her professional way, well that was an experience. She is happy for me to come inside her, urges me on, dismisses any notion of her coming. She uses her body, at times wonderfully (and artfully), but is detached from it, it’s something she employs. A lawyer, used to detachment. At 54, rather than new passions experienced, these are events ticked off.

She can’t settle in bed, goes into the other room. I rush my round, driven by images of her bed-warm, sleepy, nipples pushing through thin nightdress, I’m back by 8:30. She is already up, dressed, the beds made, the pots washed, and breakfast laid, life compartmentalised, ‘good round?’. She is gone by 10. What a passion I have for her!

5 Jan, 1999. Hill Town.

That’s all the time I can give to recuperation. I’d need a month in bed to feel better. Now I have to get on. I fell ill on Christmas eve, since then, lots of time off, lots of time being ill. And now little better. And always depressing this time of year, the Christmas cards with notes from friends established in their cumulative lives – just checking, phew, he’s still a failure – reminding me of the exhausting nature and futility of what I do.

I forget that to be a writer is to be different, that there is a disjunction between the artist’s life and the non-artist’s, that being an artist involves a neglect of quotidian life. I forget this, and then blame myself for being unable to live the accurate life that one of my intelligence, nous etc ‘should’ be able to live. Because too much of my attention and ability goes into the art thing to be able to live such a life. I forget the process, the procedure that goes into writing a poem, the time and effort spent going to and living in that place where writing gets done, of being off-line in one life to be on-line in the other; and the effort in coming out of it. I go into a room and close the door, and the room is all that can be imagined. Which I must then bring into being. “The only realism in art is of the imagination,” writes Williams, which he follows with, “In isolation one becomes a god.” How Jane hated me going into that room! Because I was inaccessible. And because, there, she was not herself. For she relied so much on me, her relationship with me, for her sense of self. The perfect wife not to marry. And opening my front door onto the street after a writing session, I often don’t not know which town I will step out into, River Town? Textile City? London? and have to shake myself into a simulacrum (how approximate sometimes!) of the one this smiling person, ‘hi, Chris!’, greets. And blame myself for my neglect of that life. And forget each year how hard is this time of year.

This today in William Carlos Williams: “But though I have felt ‘free’ only in the presence of works of the imagination, knowing the quickening of the sense which came of it, and though this experience has held firm at such times, yet being of slow understanding I have not always been able to complete the steps which would make me firm in the position. So most of my life has been lived in hell, a hell of repression lit by flashes of inspiration, when poems such as this or that would appear.” There is more. Read it carefully. Live with it. Tell myself, there are others like you, for whom the ‘given world’ is unstable, provisional, for whom reality is behind the façade which is ‘real life’ for many, most people. A façade not like a curtain, in front of, but a knitting together, a connecting of disparate and separate elements, of distinct natures, into an appearance of continuity, a comforting collective and agreed-upon illusion, even delusion – ‘do you not see …!?’ I cry, etc.

What I have to accept is that it is hard, continuously hard, because there are so many balls I have to keep aloft before I can even begin to do my work.

And being ill I feel old, and I’m terrified of not being able to feel any more.

And the terrible absence of Vicky, entirely lost without her.

Today, a little better, thoughts of other women, of the poetry group, thoughts of the unknown, the empty air I stare into, not as dissolution but opportunity.
W.C.Williams, Collected Poems vol 1, p198, 203

6 Jan, 1970. Textile City

I walked home. Except on the bus routes the snow has frozen to an ice rink. The night is clear as glass, hard as steel, the stars cold dagger points. The roadside cars are wrapped up. Against the pure snow the man-made world looks ill-designed and jerry-built. There is a shocked stillness.

Dave came over and we had lunch. I talked and talked, trying to explain what I meant about leaving the Planning Office. Afterwards he says that he doesn’t understand half of what I say but I speak with such assurance that I must be right. Oh dear, my dreaded plausibility. And I curse my talking, because I also say that so much mustn’t be talked of, especially in our ‘rationalist’, ‘objective’ way, because it fixes what should be fluid, turns the ever-changing to stone, Medusa’s gaze. I say we must get past waiting for the sign, the call, inspiration, instead push constantly against the sides of one’s world, one’s being, to see what gives, in what direction. I say I used to see our situation as having been shot by the rocket of education out of our world onto an alien plain where, if we didn’t take our allotted railway track into the future, we wandered, looking up labelled valleys, into signed woods, to choose between. And then, once entered, be once more enveloped by, absorbed into, lose oneself in. Freedom as time out, time between.

Now I see each of us as the centre of a web, a network that we are never out of, which we can explore, push into, move one’s centre within. We can, like pseudopodia of an amoeba, push into different parts of the network, but we are always within, one’s self must always feel at the centre. Dave sees leaving the Planning Office as taking a break from a situation he’ll return to, rested and renewed. He’s already making notes to prep his return. After Whitby, I say, I feel the only reason to leave is if it’s crippling, misshaping something fundamental in oneself – ie distorting the network in a harmful way. Therefore mustn’t be stayed in. He imagines the hang-ups, bad scenes, inadequate aspects of his life will fall away, and he will be cleansed, purified. I say you always take yourself with you. And even if you are renewed, you’ll be returning to a sullied environment, a clean body between dirty sheets. He believes everything will come clear, he will have a new perspective. I say clarity, perspective come not from getting out of, but from coming through. But I don’t know what I’m talking about.

I walked home from John and Pete’s new flat. They’re turning the basement into a stereo room, Led Zeppelin and Ten Years After booming. Talking to John about how, from the outside, they, the gang, seemed last year to be living unfettered, carefree and fun. But he talks of the tensions, the problems, the breakdowns. They are trying to create a way of life without help, no parents, no given (or acceptable) standards, no ideals, first-generation graduates from working-class homes. And so often their world is stimulating and warm. They need each other – why do I exclude myself? – because their peer group is all they have. And they are creating an admirable, mutually-supportive world. Which I guess is why I exclude myself.

7 Jan, 1976. London.

I wake, my veins lymph-filled, no red corpuscles, not a trace of iron, beside one who is more inert, in a borrowed bed in the cold front room of friends with lives. Lost. When everything is plausible, nothing is real.

First day with Manpower, 81p an hour, fitting office furniture at the Electricity Council on Millbank. Bill, anonymous, gets on. Harry, more wayward, does just enough, talks all the time. Travelling to Oxbridge on a job, he sets off 5:30, arrives 7, 2 hours fishing before work. I imagine him by the sluice-gates, misty expanse of Pelham’s Piece, familiar outlined buildings, the city coming to life, cars, buses, bicycles, I cycle past on my way to lectures, my future laid before me in yellow brick, he just a workman fishing. ‘It’s nice, away from the missus, a bit of peace.’ His friend combs Thames mud. 120 clay pipes. An iron weapon. ‘Could be a dagger. Or Excalibur. I dunno.’ The dagger in Marlowe’s eye.

To the Tate at lunchtime. Van Gogh: I see each daub of paint applied, as it’s applied, his staccato, compulsive, directed dabs, the timelessness of the ever now. Cézanne: the stillness of every mark in place; it could be no other; approach it and time ceases; look deeper, into the quivering vibration of perfect placement; and deeper, the still place between moments of time. Air bubbles to a drowning man.

Back to work, the task now routine, no one works hard. Descend into the sea of thoughts. We are born from, cast out of, all-knowing, into part-knowing, changed from energy to matter (painful change), granted one power (quality? ability?) – self-consciousness, with which to negotiate the duality of self and other (all else), to learn to live with solitariness, to fashion form and narrative. Make oneself fit. At what cost. “How often must one feel, as one looks back on his past life, that he has gained a talent but lost a character!” (Durrell.) Exactly. And I’m still resisting the change. “I begin to see an object only when I cease to understand it,” (Thoreau.) Yes. Or seek ways back to, on to, experiencing, again, the all-knowing. We will be initiated at the School of Meditation tomorrow evening. Or it is all in my head, my experiencing is my creation, and I should have the character to live there? “I find the actual to be less real than the imagined.” Read more Thoreau.

As the doors of the tube train open before me, cavernous mouth, I say, ‘sorry, Jane, for dragging you through this, for taking your youth.’

Blood on the Tracks. Isn’t it all in that? 

Gail, Fred’s partner, reading “Ten Thousand Facts You Always Wanted to Know”, says, ‘William the Conqueror on first meeting his future wife expressed his feeling for her by hitting her and rolling her in the mud.’ The idea excites her. She is short and round and soft. She looks exactly like the girl who broke Fred’s heart, but without her character. At a party she stood close to me, perfumed, looking up with big brown eyes, said, ‘we must have a cuddle some time,’ and drifted off. Nothing ever happened.
Durrell, ? p43, Thoreau Journals p12, 23, 22.

8 Jan, 1986. Hill Town.

To John and Dora’s, to support John. Dora swooning histrionically with a cold, Lynn pettish, Tony aghast, as if he’d been struck with a sock full of sand. The kids wandered around disconsolately, beneath the cloud of conflict and tension between the adults, in their own terrain, hunting around in their own small world for solace, comfort, and something to do. Sometimes one reached up into the stratum of the adult world, or was reached down to from it, with inevitable hurt hands and sore hearts.
The rain fell, and it was like being in an ark, of sighing adults and fretful children, as the rain pebbled onto the plastic roof of the conservatory, and the earth became saturated and the water rose and the ark shook and suddenly was free, and the children shouted, ‘Hooray, an adventure!’, and the adults, woken suddenly out of their dreams of freedom, cried, ‘Help, we are marooned, and all at sea!’ How soon we lose hope and the optimism of adventure.

I escaped with John to another room and he opened up a little, more than he had at the Men’s Group. It’s an odd situation. He and Dora are both painters, he is by far the better, but it’s she who has a gallery. Helped by an affair with an art school principal when on a course, yes, but retained because her work is easy on the eye without being obvious, and she’s happy to adapt to the gallerist’s demands, produce at the required rate. And she likes her work selling, enjoys the private views (is good at them, comfortable in the company of buyers because she comes from that class), the spotlight on her, having a reputation. Whereas John is reluctant even to exhibit. As if being on display, being seen by so many people who do not understand, the casual, uncomprehending eyes, sullies the work. But, too, a working-class kid from Hull, first generation to art school, and then the Royal College, never quite in his depth, hypersensitive, caught between the marvellousness, sometimes, of what he makes (and the feeling that goes with it, of being incomparable), and the class thing. And without a community, egotism is the only source of power, that keeps one going. He is simple, even naïve, but he has an astonishing capacity for concentrated attention, on what someone’s saying, and especially on the seen, and detailed remembering, as if it’s unscrolling before him as he speaks. He talks of Cézanne painting a portrait, working on it every day for three months, then asking the sitter, the client, what he thinks. Perhaps the left hand could be changed slightly? Cézanne, great bear, stands, not moving, says, as if stating the obvious – but if I changed the hand, I’d have to repaint the whole canvas. Flees the house, Paris, abandons it as a failure, and now it’s regarded as one of his finest portraits. Of his many paintings of Mont-St-Victoire, ‘you see, if he painted the mountain, and then moved his head two inches to one side, it would be a different view, presenting different problems. He started each time from scratch, as if he’d never painted it. The ultimate knowing naïve.’ He talks of Greece, his trips there, living there for long spells, of times alone, of moments. One day walking seven miles through scrub and dust, in the cicada-vibrating heat of the day, towards a village on a bay by the sea, imagining each step the glass of water he would drink, the swim in the enclosing water. He arrived and looked down into water so deep and transparent it looked like green glass. In the centre of the bay was a craggy cone of rock, white and pink and ochre, in patterned detail, rising from the solid sea. At the top a boy, tousled black hair, olive body, naked, very still. ‘I looked, paralysed, in time suspended.’ ‘Why?’ ‘I had wandered unthinking into a world beyond my comprehension.’ The boy dived out, and down, spinning like a spindle, into the solid sea, and down into John’s heart. Heartsick he turned and stumbled away, walked seven miles back, through scrub and dust, the glass of water, the swim forgotten, fell into his bed and slept for twelve hours. ‘Eventually the paintings came.’ And I’m tortured again by the tragedy for me that I have written, not painted.

9 Jan, 1991. Hill Town.

Dear Helen
A Janus letter.
First, looking back.
To a Christmas card, unsent, and a Christmas present, ditto, and a New Year greeting from today, all herewith enclosed.

Now to your questions:
Our first meeting – how different our memories! But would pooling them be an innocent pleasure, or a dangerous indulgence? I’ll go with the latter and move on. While sharing a vivid memory with you, of us walking up to Packett’s Park – hand in hand, of course – talking nonstop about our imagined futures.

Old age – I’ve second-guessed every possibility from sagely fame to poverty-stricken obscurity. Always, significantly, alone.

My time alone at Whitby showed me that I wasn’t ready to be alone in Whitby. But it confirmed me on a path, however faint at times. And in a Whitman view of what each of us contains. I saw the moon on the sea at midnight and rushed to my flat to paint it. I learned what fog is. In the silence of solitude I heard the chattering of others’ voices in my head, and resolved not to move until the voices fell silent. I bought you a candle in the shape of a candle, flame and all. You told me you had met a whirlwind and he was carrying you off.

Blocking? We too often engineer ourselves into relationships that block us from what we want, need, and should really be doing. Whatever, the fundamental relationship to resolve is that with our parents.

Thank you so much for your letter, unexpected, and for reaching out of your world and, however tentatively, into mine.

Now, looking forward.
I have a son who I hurt deeply and for whom I must find a way to justify myself.
I have an ex-wife with a busy life who after twenty years cut me out of her life like dead wood and grafted on a clone, without breaking step.
I am in a relationship of remarkable quality.
I have friends whose friendship I am consolidating and deepening, and a circle I am broadening.
I sleep well at night and wake refreshed in the morning.
I do tai chi.
I remember things I’d forgotten, which I regret having forgotten.

What will I do? I don’t know. I will stay here until it happens. Except that of course it is happening now. I’ve always presumed I would do something special in my life, while doubting whether I have the talent, energy, desire or nerve to actually do it. And a parallel belief that inhabiting our own space and place and time to the full is all the good there is. Faust and Buddha, side by side.

I have a week’s holiday in spring, and imagine cycling up to visit you. Write when it’s right to write.
Thanks again
With all good wishes.

10 Jan, 2003. Hill Town.

To the hospital at 5. Mum is now in a room on her own. She is very anxious, seems to be looking at something, seeing something. Death? Her life? She’s unsettled, keeps saying ‘oh’, but can’t articulate anything. I tell her I love her (the first time ever), we hug, she says, ‘oh’, looks keenly into my face. All I see is her large, pale, hooded eyes – not confused, exactly, but unreadable, opaque. I try to talk of good things. She’s bothered by the bad things – ‘we had a falling out’, as if we had fallen apart, when it was my withdrawal. I realise the pain of that withdrawal. Maybe I needed it, to survive. As Tom does from me. But now I know the pain. Her arms are in the air, one hand a hovering claw, the other vertical, the hand clenched. Little finger movements, like beckonings, an urgency, ‘oh’, but nothing follows. Her mind has separated from her body – trying to drink, she can’t anticipate the cup, or move her hand towards it, as if she’s fearful of it, what it will do. When I mention her clenched hands, she looks at them as if they aren’t hers and can do nothing about them. I say Malcolm and I are good, we’re honest. She says, two wonderful sons. She wants a pee, so I call the nurse. When I come back in she’s more settled, her arms under the blankets, she’s lying back. Perhaps the nurse turned up the diamorphine drip.

The conversation with Doctor Townsend two weeks ago. He said, ‘I don’t want to move to opiates while she’s reasonably comfortable, they’re the big guns, and there’s no going back from them.’ He checked the X-ray – half a lung is blank, flooded with effusion. ‘We could aspirate, draw off the liquid. But it needs an expert, so they’d take her to Yeovil, but not to stay. It’s a testing procedure, and would delay things by a week or two.’ He said, ‘we need to plan the end,’ looking up, checking as he goes, on my feelings, on what I know of mum’s feelings, on how much I know about end of life. He decides. ‘If the effusion builds up so she has difficulty breathing, we’ll put her on a diamorphine drip. It jets a small amount of the drug into her system, she will feel comfortable, mellow, will float away on a cloud.’ I said, ‘yes’, aware that I was agreeing at some point to killing my mother.

She is haggard, her mouth a ragged O. She suddenly wakes, says, ‘I was halfway there.’ ‘Was it alright?’ ‘It was lovely.’ She sleeps. I say to the young staff nurse, ‘she’s settled, but I don’t want to leave her, I have a feeling.’ She says, ‘you can stay, no problem.’ I watch her. She keeps almost stopping breathing. The older staff nurse says, ‘they go for ages without breathing. Go home, phone us, we have your number.’ I realise I want to be there at the ‘dying gasp’. But realise that’s from voyeuristic as well as personal reasons. But with dad having slipped away, it seems important. I leave at 8.

I see Kate. She looks rough, down at heel. Do I need someone? No, I need space. As always. And I realise that the feeling about mum isn’t fearing not being there when she dies, but wanting to be with her all the time. Oddly, I imagine lying beside her, holding her as she fades, keeping her safe in strong arms as life ebbs, as the door opens. She fears passing through the door. Maybe in fear that as a ‘bad person’, who’s done lots of ‘bad things’, ‘wrong things’ (and was there ever one more innocent than she?), she will go to hell. Or maybe it’s simply the fear that when she goes through the door, it won’t be over. I noticed her big ears. And that her hands, always red and chapped and work worn, are now soft, like a child’s.

11 Jan, 2003. Hill Town.

Mum died last night. I didn’t check the time – it must have been about 6:45pm. Doctor Townsend phoned at midday to say mum had been distressed and he’d increased the dose of drugs. At one the nurse phoned and said she didn’t think mum would last long. I went in at 2.

Mum was lying on her back, mouth open, breathing evenly but hoarsely, gargling in the throat at each breath, working hard to breath. She looked very old. In fact she looked dead. Like the old lady in the glass coffin in Greece.

What did I do through the afternoon? I guess I was just with her, her hand was smooth, the skin on her forehead, yellow and grey, was smooth. The nurse said, have a sandwich while we sort her out. As I’m eating she comes back and says, she hasn’t got long. They’ve changed her position so she’s lying down, head to the right, mouth hanging open but less gargling, eyes open but sightless. The breaths come less frequently, almost stop. Stop.

No sense of anything changing, no last sigh, no death rattle, just a cessation, her breathing had stopped, and life had absented itself. Suddenly this was a corpse, subject to different laws, rules, those of decay. I was close to her, stroking her hair, her eyes open but sightless (were they?), troubled, as ever in life, saying all sorts of crazy stuff, I love you, thank you, thank you for everything, you’re going to a better place, it’s okay you can go now, I can feel the wings sprouting, oh angel I can feel you flying, flying. And then she was gone. I kissed her mouth, I kissed her head, a strong smell, a mixture of hair, skin and perfume – what from? (The nurse? Nice thought.) she reminded me of the hetaerae in Rilke’s poem, ‘They lie in their long hair, and the brown faces have long ago withdrawn into themselves.’ She was like someone from a grave. I wanted her to be dressed as a princess, with all her finery and possessions – that would be the way to go! I know now what should be the how of death.

I sat and looked at her. As I’d looked at Tom when he was born. In him was all potential. In her was all the past, the events, the history of the world to that point. As if by contemplating her I was encompassing the whole history of the world. Her going was – an absenting of herself, a backing out of the limelight, off the stage. I felt mildly euphoric. Why? Because now the road ahead was clear. What does that mean? No longer a responsibility? Like the end of a relationship, the first sensation is relief, only later comes loss.

But this – looking at her dead – suddenly everywhere else there was life. Even the most moribund of geriatrics outside the curtain was fizzing with life. I want to rush around saying, look, this is what you’ve got, you’ve got life! – even the most miserable life is filled with thrills and beauty and perfection compared to death! Grasp life, live it! Live heroically! Everywhere there was life, as she was receding into, what – darkness? No, into the realm of transformation, of disintegration and reintegration, into the ground of being.

And, yes, too (entirely a creation of my brain) the angelic figure, bright and light-filled and flying and being, yes, a guardian angel. And I understand funeral rites, preservation of bodies, grave goods – not as resources for when on ‘the other side’, but as manifestations of their life, the isness of their life, the gathering together of all the stuff around them, before death, everything with them at the crossing. To have taken it back would have been churlish. And, yes, I do feel the spotlight falling on me. Jupiter rising. I feel giddy, disattached, as if I’m on something.

Dad was the warrior revealed. Mum was the performer on the stage, the consummate actress, who do you want me to be, I’ll be it, in the spotlight. And then the spotlight empty.

This morning on my round, watching Venus low in the west in the gathering light, saying – once Venus is gone, she is gone. The sky red at the horizon, Jupiter high, hoar frost, silhouettes of trees, each a different pattern, thinking – this is the first sunrise in my life that mum won’t wake to.

12 Jan, 1995. Hill Town.

Well.
I’d arranged to be at Vicky’s at twelve, got wet through collecting the wood, had to take off my trousers when I got there. Our conversation was wary, after Monday, but gradually we warm and find ourselves, mutual magnets, drawn closer. I say, ‘I have a cuddle for you’, intending just that. She kneels between my legs, and we embrace for a long time, comfortable. Then she fondles through my underpants, making the soft oohing sound that’s so arousing. Shall I take off my underpants? She nods. A large erection. She caresses, strokes, sucks. I unbutton her blouse, squeeze her breasts, soft now after last summer’s hardness of neglect, sighs, closes her eyes. Soon we’re in bed, naked and fucking, she as wonderful as ever, big and pillow-soft, light and amenable, available, open. Our eyes rove, always astonished by this intimacy, our lips kiss, our hands caress, roam, explore endless bodies, this love-making that comes from enlivened sensuality, bodily desire, is thoughtless and endless, my cock is all over alive, her cunt when I enter draws me in, alive and tuned, taking my cock deep into her, drawing the spunk up and up, from my toes through my hips and out – I’m out of her, she still fears sperm inside her – onto her round belly, light and sparkling and full of life.

It’s curious how easily I pull on my clothes, say, ‘I have to go’, go home to make Tom’s lunch, and pick up Stella at 2. We have a lovely afternoon in Salisbury, a couple out shopping, attentive and interested, admired. I buy a mac – I think she’s trying to smarten me up, and I’m okay with that. I drop her at home, shop with Tom, and am soon back at her house to eat.

After an embrace, she asks, ‘how much do want this relationship to work?’ I say, ‘very much, why do you ask?’ ‘Because I know you’re still seeing Vicky.’ ‘How did you find out?’ ‘I’m not going to tell you. I thought I could handle it, but I’ve had a couple of drinks, and I can’t.’ We eat and talk. A couple of weeks ago she told me of her long affair with her husband’s best friend, deceiving her husband and her lover’s wife, even staying with them at their house. And that was not her first affair. And of course I am ‘an affair’. But her husband, the wife, didn’t know. And for her it’s all in the knowing. ‘If they don’t know, they’re not hurt.’ And I guess I felt the same with Vicky, Stella not knowing. But now she knows. The conversation peters out.
And then we find ourselves on our feet, in a clinch, looking into each other’s faces, she grips me hard. I squeeze her small breast really hard, twist, she laughs harshly, you can’t hurt me – but I’m going to hurt you. She leads me upstairs into her bedroom, strips me, orders me to lie on the bed face down, ties my hands and feet, paints my nails bright red, lipstick on my mouth, blindfolds me. And then, using my college scarf (I learn later. I’d lent it to her on a walk. Long and heavy. The next morning I find there are three large knots in it) she flogs me. Hard. It hurts. Each blow, on buttocks, back, shoulders, I take, 8, 9 – only on the tenth, applied with extraordinary force and venom, that really hurts, do I curl up, cry out, ‘Enough!’
I don’t know if she would have stopped anyway, whether 10 was the number. Or whether the tenth would have released an uncontrolled assault. But, she stops.
My back is on fire. She is panting. I have a vision of this tiny creature wielding the heavy scarf with total fury. I lie face down, thinking. It’s the first time I’ve been beaten. When my father beat my brother, when friends were beaten at school, there was within me envy, a desire. Not to be punished, but to be hurt, to find out how I would ‘take it’, endure. And this beating had been for me a transaction: I had done, in her eyes, wrong, and this was retribution.

Part of me had also wondered whether such a ritualised giving and receiving of pain would unlock a cabinet of sado-masochistic desires, practices. It didn’t. But, face down, blindfolded, I thought about that last blow. It had been too hard, too much. I wondered whether she was getting carried away, by the unaccustomed power – especially over a man – that I had become all men, and she might never have stopped. What if I wasn’t able at any moment to stop her, what if I’d really been helpless?

She unties me, takes off the blindfold. She is shocked. At what she’s done? At me allowing her to do it? At my lack of anger? At the bruising? She takes off her clothes and we go to bed. I hold her in my arms. Neither of us sleeps well. At times in the night I consider leaving, that last blow … I stay. We talk.
‘Why did you let me do it?’ ‘Because you wanted to.’ ‘What a horrible thing to have done!’ ‘You must acknowledge your anger, hatred even, of – I don’t know.’ She nestles. I say, ‘we are brother and sister.’
In the morning we make love. She says, ‘I’m glad we make love.’ We are both emptied, emotionally spent. And we have a sense that events have been set in motion that need to run their course. We are helpless and sad. I go home and she goes to lunch with friends. In the afternoon I realise that nothing will change, I will continue to see Vicky, until something happens.

13 Jan, 1997. Hill Town.

‘Dear Helen
Happy New Year!
At last a little space, after a full month of things happening. Nothing of
great moment, most of it work and Christmas, just stuff. The stuff that fills space, takes up time, and leaves me distanced from myself – the ‘outer’ person doing all the living while the inner is neglected, complains of the neglect and, being insecure and full of doubt begins to believe the outer’s story that he is a drag on his life, unworthy, irrelevant, better to live without … etc.
Tom came and went. He enjoyed being home, it was lovely to have him home, but also the reassuring sense of him moving out of our orbit into the wider world, that my days of father-to-son-at-home are over, happy days happily relinquished.

I went to the sea on New Year’s Day, touched it at Durdle Door, drank to the New Year with a taste of sea water, primordial, sat at its edge for a long time, taking in its vast splendour as the sky changed from blue to red to purple to night. So many stars. 

‘ One earthly Thing
truly experienced, even once, is enough for a lifetime.’

A developing sense of having a more public life: teaching tai chi; a group interested in the specialness of Hill Town; moving towards publishing the France book; contented at being not in a relationship, and not being between relationships, being on my own. We’ll see.
I enclose two new poems. Write soon and tell me your news.
Warm thoughts.’

5:30pm
‘Not wooing, no longer shall wooing, voice that has outgrown it,
be the nature of your cry; but instead, you would cry out as purely as a
bird when the quick ascending season lifts him up, nearly forgetting
that he is a suffering creature and not just a single heart
being flung into brightness, into the intimate skies. Just like him
you would be wooing, not any less purely –, so that, still
unseen, she would sense you, the silent lover in whom a reply
slowly awakens and, as she hears you, grows warm, –
the ardent companion to your own most daring emotion.’
Seventh Duino Elegy, RM Rilke.

14 Jan, 1986

15 Jan, 2007. Hill Town.

Rain on the skylight. Toothache returns, very painful.
I finished the Brimstone accounts, and was walking to the bank when, ‘beep’, twice, I ignore, of course it’s Stella, out with her mother. Later she phones to say let’s meet next Wednesday, the day before she returns to France. She lets slip she’s free this Thursday, so clearly wants to rehearse old ground, not dare new. Disappointing.
I need to get my contribution to the Breach Common book moving, or drop out.

‘By this measure the duty of writers is to please readers and to be eager to do so, and this duty has various subsets: the duty to be clear; to be interesting and intelligent but never wilfully obscure; to write with the average reader in mind; to be in good taste. Above all, the modern writer has a duty to entertain. Writers who stray from these obligations risk tiny readerships and critical ridicule. Novels that submit to a shared vision of entertainment, with characters that speak the recognisable dialogue of the sitcom, with plots that take us down familiar roads and back home again, will always be welcomed. This is not a good time, in literature, to be a curio. Readers seem to wish to be ‘represented’, as they are at the ballot box, and to do this, fiction needs to be general, not particular. In the contemporary fiction market a writer must entertain and be recognisable – anything less is seen as a failure and a rejection of readers.’ Zadie Smith. 2007

‘The Villa Seurat Series, Miller announced, had been “formed in answer to a contemporary demand for greater freedom of expression in literature”, a demand more strongly felt by the author than by the public. The Series would search for the one book every writer wants to write, that is, the book “nobody understands,” which no “publisher wants to print.” the “hypothetical book… your writer never writes, because there would be nothing left to do with it when written – except perhaps burn it.” The Villa Seurat Series was “the only home in the world for such a production. Its interest is not in the merely unprintable book, but in the unwritable book … and … for those authors whose work does not derive from, or cater to, the commercial standards of the day, it exists as an incentive to write books which lie on the side of the precipice.”’ Miller’s announcement for the VSS imprint of Kahane’s Obelisk Press. 1935.

16 Jan, 1990. Hill Town.

Dear Paul
Thanks for your supportive letter. Sat in the tranquillity of my attic room it’s difficult to believe that the events of the last six months happened. Still less that after twenty-one years of being home- and family-, ie Jane-centred, that I simply walked out. Perhaps a chronological account will help.
Over the summer I was doing some carpentry for friends. Steve had started an affair, and although they still shared the house (they have two teenage daughters) they were no longer sleeping together, and Vicky was beginning to come to terms with being on her own, and the end of a relationship that had never been, for her, very satisfactory. Jane and I were estranged, sleeping apart.

So Vicky and I talked a lot, over the kitchen table, an hour a day before I got on with the cupboards. And I guess without realising it we were telling each other a lot about ourselves, and clearing the ground between us.

Vicky went to Spain on a course, and when she came back things had changed. We went for a drink, and found that crazy, magical things were happening. It was a long hot summer here, a summer for big things to happen. I called it a seven-year summer. Then we both went on family holidays, and thought about each other all the time.

When we got back we decided, rather solemnly if I recall, to ‘have a secret affair’. We never seemed to get the affair bit together, but kept meeting, and Jane soon found out. Perhaps a measure of how little individual life I had. Probably I wanted her to find out, to continue our collusion and give her the chance to turn a blind eye. She went crazy – abusive phone calls to Vicky, assaults and shouting at me, especially when Tom was there, demands that I make instant choices, ‘it’s me or that woman – go and tell her tonight that it’s over, or pack your bags!’

Well I guess I just got fed up with being pushed around and abused, and treated with no respect. I guess that’s it – Jane says how much she loves me (although how little I’ve felt loved), wants me, can’t live without me, etc, but with no respect for me as an individual human being. Treated as her possession, not to be trusted with volition, a disobedient dependant to be brought back into line, a dog to be brought to heel.

But every storm, assault, tirade I weathered strengthened me, made me realise the degree to which I’d lost myself by knuckling under. I refused to stop seeing Vicky. And that was less about Vicky than about me refusing to do what I was told. I felt my being depended on that refusal. I’d seen a friend whipped in, not pretty. It would have been the end of me.

As things got worse I placed an ad for accommodation in return for work, was quickly offered this room in a doctor’s house, and when things got no better, I moved out, into this room. Vowing that even if Vicky finishes with me tomorrow, I won’t move back.

Although Jane is the best friend I’ll ever have, I realise now how she blanked me out, placed herself between me and the world, possessed me, denied me to myself. Which was unforgivable. And I can’t now imagine not living alone.

It sounds like things aren’t great between you two, hence this long account, so give me a call if you want to talk.

17 Jan, 1996. Hill Town.

Dear Helen
Heavens, yes, Songs of Swans was very Women’s Lib! And I wrote a novel at the same time about women going to the moon and returning with ‘moon wisdom’ to save the earth. I was quite certain that women could save the world. In fact I was handing over my power, like a guilty Tolstoy handing over his estates. The inevitable confusion of roles was disastrous and ultimately terminal for my marriage. And the marriage had been made possible by actions for which I can’t forgive myself. A relationship born under a bad sign.

On the other hand, Songs could be read as a celebration of my anima …? Or of the taking off of my creative spirit …?

There were always swans on the river and the canal at home, and I remember as a small child being fascinated by the contrast between the swimming, the taking-off, and the flying swan, at once creatures in their separate realms, and a creature with uncanny powers of transformation. And its essence, its essential ‘swan-ness’, was in the taking-off, the combination of self-belief, effort, will, and single-mindedness that invested the swimming and flying swan with an aristocratic, even god-like quality that other water birds did not have: the quality of its being was derived from the quality of its doing. And how fascinating to read later of the birth of Apollo on Delos, and it being celebrated by swans flying round the island seven times! And how later his chariot was pulled by swans to Hyperborea, ie Britain, where he lived and was venerated for the three months he was not the centre of the oracle at Delphi.

It would be interesting to write it as a male swan. I wonder how different it would be? All the phases and changes swan goes through were my changes. But I’m sure having a male swan would produce differences.

Jane always promised she would make sure it was published, even if she had to publish it herself. Of course she never did, instead kept it to herself, as with everything I gave her, including myself, as her possession.

I’ve finished writing Part I of the new book! I’m now in transition from Part I to Part II, from roots to trunk. I began it when Vicky left. I stopped writing when Stella and I got together. I resumed it when Stella left and I started seeing Vicky again. And as I finished it, I realised that Vicky and I are absolutely finished. I had gone for a drink with Stella, which pleasantly returned us to our previous position of ‘friends who say hi in the street’. Then Vicky and I had a long conversation, and as I put the phone down I realised that our relationship was now in the past. ‘I awoke from The Sickness at the age of fifty, calm and sane, and in reasonably good health.’ The opening of The Naked Lunch. I especially like ‘calm and sane’. I now have a new role, as the spare at married friends’ dinner parties who they plan to pair off with unattached friends. The novelty flabbergasts me. No pairing so far, but some nice dinners, and a new social position.

18 Jan, 2003. Hill Town.

Yesterday a green woodpecker accompanied me along Love Lane and down St John’s Hill on my round. It tapped each tree, then darted with its heavy dipping flight to the next. Looking for food? Marking its territory? At the bottom, as I delivered the last letter, it gave three harsh cries, an alert to now, to be in the present (a Huxley messenger bird) and flew off. A single green feather fluttered down, landed at my feet. The book says they are birds of prophecy and magic power, ‘guides to the mastery of non-conformity’.

This evening, how odd, walking back along Pine Walk, the full moon above the Downs through the tracery of branches, I met Stella. She was very physical. But that’s Stella. She had just written to me about mum. We talk about our mothers. I mention the concert, the summer outdoor concert, our mothers sat side by side on folding chairs, white-haired, eyes bright in the stage lights, we sat at their feet like children, smiling to each other in complicity as they bathed in the romanticism of the popular classics. She says, ‘I put that in the letter.’ About their plans for their place in France. She’s settled, happy as a ‘pig in shit.’ (Typical Stella. I’d have preferred, ‘sheep in clover.’) she’s sixty next week. They’ll do up a house for her son, then move to France next year. I realise I’m coming on to her. And that she’ll be flattered. I remember that a full moon through trees is for her the essence of romance. I’d forgotten how she talks all the time, never listens. How do I feel? No great heart leap, or regret. It worked, it is no longer, I don’t miss it. And yet the allure of having someone. Anyway I was feeling smug about A Summer in France, already in my mind, ‘the oddest bestseller of the year’. Or perhaps, and preferably, a quiet but regular seller that keeps me. I’ve had my France experience. Can I imagine living in France with her? No. Or anywhere? No. There is in her a help-meet … But, no. Odd, very odd.

19 Jan, 2000. Hill Town.

Rain. Again. More. I’m on Semley. The drains fill with water, overflow into the high-banked lanes that run with water, the grass is under water, I step through water, onto grass, tarmac, concrete, no idea until my foot lands. Three concrete steps, the rain flowing over them like a water feature; coils of water flowing prettily down the lanes, the world turning into a water garden. Except that I’m in it, delivering mail in it, and the farmers must work in it, and the cattle stand in it, as the slurried yards fill with liquid shit. Half an hour with Mrs Pitman. By the window, dreary prospect of mist, wind and rain, and the wide view over a grey and mud-bound world. She talks. Relatives are dying, her sons aren’t well, the daughters-in-law have sick, demanding fathers. And a farming world of filling in forms, beef bans, tumbling incomes that’s beyond her and her sons’ understanding. ‘It used to be you’d produce the milk and get paid for the milk, and the harder you worked and the more you produced, the more you got paid. Not now. It doesn’t make sense. I thought milk was a staple, something everyone needs. “Produce more milk, for the children”, they said. Not now. They don’t even have it at school anymore.’ Art. and she had built from nothing (he a labourer), to something. Working for an employer. Renting. Renting bigger. Buying. The farm for the boys. Set up. And done on hard work, the margin you get from working longer and harder. Art. worn out, dying young. But the farm, bought, theirs, for the boys. They employed a man they thought was a friend, he’s suing them. The incomers complain if hedge banks get damaged. But time is money and you have to drive the tractors hard. ‘And their cars fill the lanes, slow you down. What can you do?’ As I drive the van down from her bungalow to the farm in the bottom, the unrepaired access road is running mud, the yard slurry-bound, everything has a dark aspect, shit-coated and hardened, everything viewed through it. I see it in David, as helpless as his cattle. Imagine a rope creaking from a beam in the barn. Three generations, they say, one to make it, one to keep it, one to lose it. This will be two. And the life of Mrs Pitman, a lovely, generous woman, a life of hard work, with a hard man, come and gone.

At home I strip off, everything wet through, drop clothes in the bath, dress, resume the dry world. And open this letter, from Edward Field, the American poet I looked after at the Wessex Poetry Festival last year:

‘Dear Keith
I’m grounded with the flu, and was flipping through Fire 9, feeling dissatisfied with the poems, when one poem stopped me with its haunting music.
Forgive me, I’m somewhat gaga – I didn’t remember your name. But when I read in the contributors’ notes you were a postman, something clicked and I jumped up and checked my address list and found your card in the pile of unanswered mail on my desk. Of course I immediately remembered you were that sweet guy who drove me from the station and through the magical Dorset night of hedgerows and tarrants. Thank you, thank you for ‘The Traveller’, which rescued me for a moment from my bleak New York life. It has the glimmer of the mysteries I sensed in your landscape.
And thanks for the New Year’s card.
I wish you all good things in the coming year(s), and may you hit more poems dead center like that one.
Edward.’

I’m a poet!