This is part of something longer in my notebook from a twenty minute furious writing session directed by Shirley May which was wonderful and we were focusing in on a memory and I went for my room in the house I grew up in the summer before I left home. This piece may get extended it went some pretty strange places but this part is fit for consumption just about.
When I slid sideways on the window sill of hill house
I am wedged here on the wide window sill this house has a solidity I have found hardly anywhere else the sense of lives imprinted on the handmade red brick its previous incarnations ever present: a sanatorium, the thought of mass sickness and death, sanctuary. I am awake it is still dark but won’t be for long the air when I lean out to puff on what I am smoking is temperate I am agitated and can’t sleep I don’t know why yet. I smoke because I mistakenly believe it calms me I have the feeling later of breathing in smoke to stop up my mouth to stop something terrible coming out the agitation and unrest I increasingly feel is still here with me and all those voices I believe later, given names, and brought out into the light of day, erroneously. There’s the heady smell of high summer and dozens of rabbits running in the field avoiding the small square of dim light from my window. There’s the peacock on the porch at the other window I know he’s there though he is thankfully silent for now.