Thoughts From Notting Hill in September

Wrote these when I was trying to find some work at the end of the summer - was mooching around in Notting Hill alternately handing out CVs and stopping in various nice Notting Hill pubs to read Beckett and drink coffee. I guess I was thinking about timelessness? I'm really worried about capturing zeitgeists recently. Like, you know how you have a sense of, say, what a certain summer felt like as a child. I feel like time is flying by so quickly recently I need to pin it down somehow to stop it going so fast. Anyway, here goes:


I

A sensation (not quite symmetrical) of one set of membranes against my own; a third, more dextrous one between, and again with that strange symmetry. An onlooker might form the obvious conclusion, one of passionate disaster, a clean cut violation, a redistribution of the fine sort of human relation that is not supposed do be shared.
The combination of these elements, the harmony of giving and taking, of sharing, enough to transform a random arrangement of shapes in air, of glands, fibres, tendons and signals (against mine) into a pattern of broken intentions. A particular way of interlocking the interlocking parts renders intention a violation, a curious thing that wounds by remote control, which trespasses on someone who (god forbid the alternative!) (a parenthesis is voicing guilt - a clue?) isn't even there, when the subtraction of one set of these mucous membranes could be as innocuous as the alternative is abstract.

II

We have left a little sphere, floating in the air, a totally unnatural, utterly artificial white sphere, that will remain there forever. I could not destroy it any more than I could touch it, any more than I could stick my fingers back in time and pry apart the moulds that made the thing apart, because all moments are instantaneous, and that is what the sphere is - just a simple, white sphere, that exists only in the isolated minds of the beholders (it has a twin, inside the brain of someone distant, which may not ever be discovered).
The sphere means nothing, suddenly coming to exist in a particular arrangement of bits and pieces, really made for ins and outs, not for creation.
But, it does reflect the damning light of intention, in curious, distorting ways, which are cracks, violent and allowing the flow of a certain kind of love whose fluidity it is our responsibility to check, according to the maxim "Happiness is a solid. Joy is a liquid. Satisfaction is a gas."
But the cracks spread somehow, tangential to the flow of time. The egg is always hatching, always hatched.