Archilochus Cloot

29 November 2009

Plays: 2

 

Sometimes it is clear. By which I mean defined. It has form. But mostly this form slips and it becomes hard to describe. Sleep. I do not look forward to sleep.

27 November 2009

Document 1

Upon waking, I discover this fragment of paper with these words.


Some barbarian is waving my shield,
since I was obliged to
leave that perfectly good piece of equipment behind
under a bush.
But I got away, so what does it matter?
Life seemed somehow more precious.
Let the shield go; I can buy another one equally good


Written on heavy paper with a pinkish tinge and tucked neatly between my “digitus infamous” and pointer finger. The red mark between digits, indicates that this missive ( Surely it must be construed as missive) has been resting here for some time.
I have emphasised certain words that I consider meaningful.

Up until this point, the paper fragments I discover each morning, have been blank. The words that leap out at me now from this artfully torn scrap, compel me to revisit these earlier fragments. Perhaps there is something I’ve been missing. I will wait until mid-morning then discreetly examine the pieces.  Afterall, I do not want to look like I might be making connections. Not yet at any rate.

The words are made of dark ink. Applied with a brush, with particular care but little skill.
I place the paper under my pillow and stare at the ceiling as is customary.
It is difficult to mask my excitement

27 November 2009