Journal note: Jonathan Carroll

'A Child Across The Sky' again. Why? Jonathan Carroll's books are full of such wise and kind characters, though they frequently have the flaw of being wealthy enough to be able to be wise and kind. Evil is a thing grown in the dark soil of dreams.
(...dream sequence deleted...)
But Carroll's stories cut close to the bone because they are not afraid to face our fear of death. Amidst the madness, horror and hopelessness of our world he can still delineate hopes, dreams and what it is to be fully alive. Like those poems by Rilke, maybe.

John Cage 4'33" - a memory

Again I think of the lovely things I found in John Cage's 4'33" and the amusement I found in being aurally aware of the audience, who only coughed once or twice, then de-focussing the audience, staring at the pianist's flaming red hair, thinking how young he was, treading back to my own mind and seeing a silent black volcanic desert in Iceland where only the wind made the faintest sound through the soft sable sands, and back again to the black grid at the rear of the stage and being aware of the microphones recording this silence for Radio 3, and was that my stomach gurgling or was it my neighbour on the front row, and...wasn't this surreal and peaceful, wrapped in wafts and sheets of silent sound.
And then, too soon, the pianist arose and took his bow.

Outside

The rain outside invaded Seed's inner world, washed away the glowing landscape that had lingered on from his recent sleep. He dreamed; therefore he was made whole again, ready to face another day's corrosive dose of reality.

But now?

The mirror over the hearth, opposite the lounge door- it threw back oppressive shadows. He didn't like what he saw there in the gloomy depths of its reflection. He didn't like it at all.

So, quickly averting his face, he looked for a comforting object in the room to hold. A hairbrush perhaps? Or the novel he was currently reading?

The telephone- should he call her?

His keys- should he go outside, get in his car and drive across town to see her?

Seed sank down into the armchair beneath the mirror, opposite the door, not really seeing anything.

Outside? It could wait, he thought, but could he? Outside, the rain still played its games on the rooftops, windows and pavements; still played the slippery customer to the hilt, still played hide and seek with Seed's thoughts.

Wait? No, he could not wait. Waiting wasn't his game. Action was needed; but he remained in the armchair, tensed and ready to spring, as taut as a loaded crossbow, a frozen anticipation of violent motion, staring the door down.

'Seed, old man' said the door blandly, 'get a grip on yourself.'

Seed shut his eyes to hold onto that voice of reason and recalled the landscape of his dreams. Here there was escape, said another voice in a silkier tone: here...peace...and tranquility. He looked for a hand to guide him through the door of dreams. He could almost feel that hand - no, two hands- caressing his brow and hair. Almost, but...there was darkness. No sunlight penetrated this grove, and he was lost in a cold neck of the woods, where...

Shockingly, the door was flung open to reveal...