It might be that freedom/repression misses the point. At
least it occurs to me that it doesn’t quite get to the guts of the matter. Let
us put it on one side for the moment, in a siding where we can pick it up later
if necessary or desired; let us rather look at the tension of unconscious and
conscious, and in particular that fertile field between the two. A violent
cross-roads – no traffic lights, certainly no roundabout – of everything from
pantechnicons to bicycles (and cows, I guess, browsing and grazing but with the
occasional excitement of stampedes).
Umm the coffee’s really good; there’s still the glow of the
energetic bike ride, plus the contented peacefulness of walking up the hill to
A fertility that‘s in the madness of it all; our paranoia
and chaos covered by the merest skim of fragile ice through which we can see
the terrifying monsters waiting for us to drop in. It’s a joke – I mean this
ice wouldn’t support a mouse. Of course, this is why yogis seek levitation; you
need to have the lightest of steps.
The fertility is that of dreams and sexuality, those spaces
where the ice is non-existent. We know everything and nothing. When I look
across the room at her there’s that old fertile field and nothing is known. Take
me, take me, in total freedom and leave nothing behind . . . except, maybe,
some accidental clues for those Savage Detectives following in their own time and madness – ‘.
. . even though life had changed us so much that we’d have had trouble
recognising each other on the street.’ (Page 334).