Is it night, or is it day ?

5.45 am-6.30am

Is it night, or is it day ? It is dark. There is some traffic on the road. I awoke cuddling Naoise in the attic, I still have my cotton tights on from the night before. Probably not a good idea to wear tights ion bed but I am warm and cosy. I visit the loo and decide to go and cuddle Patrick.

Is it night, or is it day? It is dark. I wonder what the time is. I try to guess by listening to the amount of traffic on the road. I hope that it is not too early as my brain is waking. Thoughts start racing. I think of the tiled victorian floor in my friends house and it brings me back to Etwall, Derbyshire and the hallway of my childhood home. My dream house. I am walking across the tiles. In places pieces of triangular blue are missing. It is a huge jigsaw puzzle geometry of joy. I imagine a bed covering sewn together from all these pieces, covering my body keeping me warm.

The wind rattles down the chimney and the gas fire whooshes and crackles. Flames gather at a section of the fire that has disintegrated. Sometimes I think I smell gas, is it dangerous ? Am I slowly being gased ?

Is it night, or is it day ? I sip my tea, milky with the soya. I think of poor Naoise last night, overtired, crying out for a digital device to play with, both me and Patrick refusing to budge. “I am bored, I am bored”, he kept crying. I remember being bored. I remember just sitting and watching. I remember time moving slowly. I remember sitting in trees and in the hayloft. I remember my childhood. I remember mud pies and poking small flower heads into them. I remember the garden, the high red brick wall, the walnut trees, the gravel on the path through it, the sound of the birds. I remember the dew on the grass as I walked bare foot through it. I remember the snowdrops in the winter time, all pushing through hope.

Is it night, or is it day ? I sip my tea, the mug is almost empty. I think of Brockhall Village. David Parr came to visit on his way past last night. David Parr, my dear friend, lover of cars and art and films. Friend of Marianne Faithful. Original thinker, critical, open hearted, painter. I remember the corridors. The corridors that led from warm central heating to nothing. Part occupied, part derelict building. The nurses living quarters, now the place where artists lived. I remember the colour of the water, yellow like pee. I remember the Christmas tree that we placed in the foyer area, I think we felled it from the woods at the back. I remember the chickens who used to live in the room on the derelict side. A bedroom of chickens, they were safe inside, after all there were foxes in the woods. I remember my bedroom on the lower floor, I was the only one who lived in this corridor. Bathroom down one end and my studio up the other. Life was simple. Life was good, this place was full of inspiration. Parquet floor inspiration. In the derelict buildings where the water had got in the wood bellowed up as if a pregnant belly. A room pregnant.

Is it day, or is it night ? The train passes to Manchester, to Leeds, can I guess which direction by just listening ? Naoise had so many accidents yesterday, am I being neglectful. These silly things that I think. How could I be responsible for a fall on the stairs or when his friend played too rough and he hit his teeth on the floor. His teeth bleed. Sometimes I feel that I bleed too. The scratch on my hand from Naoise feet in the night looks sore and infected.

Is it day, or is it night ? I spoke to Sydney on the phone. He feels so far away. So far away in London, in Hendon. I remember the house in Queens Road, 19 Queens road. The front door and the porch filled with coats. All the coats I remember being black, some were fur. Are they black because they are just not remembered as they were ? The patterned carpets, swirls of flowers green at the front through to crimson as you past through the house to the kitchen. A blue, a navy blue kitchen. Sometimes we walked in the garden, sat on the grass, under the willow tree. Walked right to the bottom. Perhaps he held my hand, kissed me. I cannot remember much about the love that we shared, most of it has been hidden so that it doesn’t hurt me. All my paintings stacked in his mothers front room. It wasn’t for too long, but she did become annoyed and that is why they are still wrapped up in a roll under my bed. Death to my paintings, my beautiful paintings. Perhaps the death of this relationship began here.

Is it day, or is it night? I wonder Sydney, you are probably still asleep. I think of you living your double life between me and your dad. It must be strange. Sydney when you are gone, I feel love sick. Sydney I hate to be apart from you. When washing up I picked up the last Sydney plate. I look at the name on the back and the crackling in the surface of the ceramic. The crackling reminds me of skin. The fragility of the surface between the outside and the in. I asked you to talk about your double life, you didn’t want to elaborate. Was my question cruel ? May be it was.

It is day, or is it night ? I set 30 minutes on the clock. What spills from a mind in 30 minutes. Half an hour. Half day, half night. The buzzer sounds incessantly beep, beep, beep, beep………beep, beep, beep, beep. I press it to stop so as not to wake the sleepers.

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