A pile of notebooks of varying sizes but each one carefully bound in ochre leather have, as recently reported in at least one of the better newspapers, been discovered in what must be described as a condemned building, some in various cupboards, some scattered about on different floors. Gathered together by one member of a group that squatted the building, a wild haired woman who declined to provide her name but who described herself as a poet, it appears that there are one hundred volumes, mostly slim but two of greater thickness, perhaps five hundred or so pages, the slimmer volumes of between seventy five and one hundred pages, and on the spines of each there is printed, The Day Books of Harry Kratchnikov. The writing contained within these Day Books are not printed but written in a spidery, difficult to decipher hand in inks of various colours, the text being interspersed with drawings of faces, some almost recognisable others quite fantastical. As you might remember Harry Kratchnikov was once a well known humorist but who is now largely forgotten except for a few die-hard fans and his ninety five year old daughter, Ann.
Plucking one of the volumes at random (they are unnumbered) I managed with some effort to decipher the following to give you an idea of what is within although whether this could be said to be representative of the entire contents I have, as yet, no idea:
Flicking between dream channels I caught a glimpse of her through an open door. Very familiar and yet new and made strange, she stood seemingly self-absorbed, perhaps deep in thought. Was that pain in the awkward jut of her shoulders? There was no time to examine the situation. I sensed a tiny movement of her head as if given more time she would have seen me, looked at me and I would have understood what she was doing there. But no time was granted to us. Was her husband waiting for me? Why do I think of that? The dark machinery of dreams, dank in a silent roaring of blood flow, arterial, a major network bringing nourishment to far flung regions. Mind what you do with that pike of yours, it’s sharpened teeth eager to feel the density of bone. No remote control of the dreams: we must take what we are given. How we hate that! Not to be in control. Not to determine the outcome of our desires. Dreams are like dialogue – open to impulse, unknown motivations, surprise and shock. Desire. In that split second glimpse did I desire her or was that an editorial addition? The editor as always thinking of sales and marketing. Meanwhile the granite waited patiently and the sentence was one of hard labour. I have no memory of the judge mentioning a time limit, a finishing date, a deadline as one might call it.
