Outline

Duetto – Prologue (cafe)

The multi-structure of prosimetra/nikki

And then he began to write

Then one day he began to write on index-cards, in notebooks, on scraps and in his head - but mostly in his head, reluctant to let go of the words, to give away the only thing(s) he had left of himself, of her, and her, and her, to send out and seek the escaped dreams of the younger man.

When I was a boy I made lists. Many, many lists - of this and that, as a game, as an end to itself. Now as an old man I make lists of poems, articles, stories that maybe I will never write but need to write to understand who I am.

calligraphy (John Brewster)

if I could write you

you would not be a poem

or a story

or a drama of dark romance

you would be the pen

not the word

the ink

not the letter

if I could write you

you would be a flourish

a long curl

a delicate eternal

stroke of my heart’s

calligraphy

Reading and writing as a magical ploy to get closer to a loved one after his death, and to discover oneself. Writing, which she refers to in another part of the book, as "the food of the gods", offers the chance to break out of the confines of daily life and on the wings of language, to intoxicate oneself with thoughts, and reveal oneself stripped bare.

What is indispensable is the opening of all flood-gates while maintaining the strictest standards and exercising ruthless discipline and rigour’. There is wildness in the first and second drafts, she has said, but the iron fist comes in with the third and fourth.    Friedericke Mayrocker



001 - I saw you the other day

I saw you the other day. You came into the coffee house. I was seated at a table in a corner. You did not see me. I saw your smile. Although I am now an elderly man, you have not changed from the beautiful young woman who walked away. So many years ago.

Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter
Each look back
Love, Joy, Regret Despair
Now just your smile
 002 - If I follow you

If I follow you through the door will I walk back into the lost past? Will I be able to tear up my speeches and actions to live a second life - written by me rather than by circumstances? Or is this cafe too comfortable?

I will tear up this sad sonnet that I have begun . .

During the loneliest hour of the dark night,
When time stands still and my memory fails,
I lose my life . . . . .

The instant of composition keeps the memory alive, raw. He will walk forward, with pain and difficulty, into the past and make it cohere. The church spire is a needle to his pole.
           Memory Maps: 'The Edge of the Orison: In the Traces of John Clare's 'Journey Out of Essex'' by Iain Sinclair http://www.vam.ac.uk/

she talks to him and he talks to himself. Like two soliloquists just within earshot of one another they seem sometimes to fall into dialogue and at others to be taking part in completely different dramas.
                       Written out of Revenge - Rosemary Hill- LRB