Little green man running – into that territory that we call
the edge, where life realises itself – always chasing after something unknown. And
then there is also life diminishing – realising I just can’t do it anymore, no longer. What
could be called, brutal facts. Brutal facts: the penetration of discomfort and
pain.
To choose a diminished life, was it really a choice? What
else was listed on the menu? He finds himself on a narrow track, no longer
running but not quite standing still. Choice, the buzzword par excellence, an
irritating fly, waved away but always to return, appears to be linked to
freedom . . . but this narrow track belies that ideology. Yes, just ahead is a
fork of the ways and he has to choose, left or right, but if he chooses the wrong
one (or tosses a coin?), then he will at some point (five minutes or fifty
years) he will realise that it was the wrong one. So what sort of choice is
that? Merely a form of torture? There is only one right way (is that true?) but
many obstacles in the shape of desires, distractions, wishful thinking, fatuous
omnipotent fantasies . . . the adman’s (aka Pink and Perky) clever words, lies and deceptions.
Stories press in from the past, seeking their words, ever
new, ever repeated. And those glimpses, those breaks in the mist, reminiscent
of those walks on Dartmoor when the mist came down and life is reduced to that
damp clinging blanket, a few yards of tussocks, and a compass bearing. (Don’t
forget the compass, Jimmy). And suddenly there’s a break in the clouds, a
dazzle of sunlight, a glimpse of the way home, before the mist swirls back
round us.
Granite is a great example of a brutal fact – its rough edge
– and I remember you pushing on to a ledge and discovering a moment of no way
forward and no way back.