To experience it first-hand would be more than I could take. I'd
fold from midriff in a rough buckle if confronted straight on. So my
phone becomes a mirror in which I can see the snake-barnetted world
passing by. She'll not look into my eyes. I'll view
her from nearby as if from afar.
And all the while I'll live-tweet reactions. "Shimmying waves rend my heart" - "this storm is upping like a sleeping giant coming round: the sea here's moved like by tremendous engines" - "furious gusts of wind cleave the sky and set the waves dancing to the sound of the shingle". I never credit Métivier, no matter how many lines of his I steal. Not many know his Whitman-wannabe beard or bard-pose.
Sunday I can see the match from behind my phone and spin a vlog so involved that anyone watching would think I was half-dead from the excitement of a wet, blustery 2-1 at Footes Lane. Even if anyone is watching they'll probably miss the simplest fact of all: my heart beats grave slow; my thoughts wade through sugar-free syrup; my enthusiasm can't get up a gnat's nose never mind anything else. And yet, soft and far from feelings as I am, the world terrifies me.
I see the reflection of myself in my screen and decide it's worth another tweet or two. "elephant bags like saddle full crap" - "cheek bones long gone": gibberish and doggerel. But the likes, one or two at any rate. perk me up again. Feed it into me. A hit here and there is enough to keep me pissing scribbles into the digital cistern.
I couldn't stand to experience the all-seeing outdoors first-hand. To stand by your cigarette-stink and get beer-plashed shoes. To wait for what I want. But if I can see your upload later I'll be happy. A shaky representation on your page leaves the fold undone. The snake-barnetted bint can now sashay off and forget me altogether.
Leave me to my devices. Let the weather do what it wants while I stay sheltered. She can turn someone else to stone, someone who wants to get wet in the rain or wants to be thrown about on the beach. They're welcome to it, happy as I am with my phone.
And all the while I'll live-tweet reactions. "Shimmying waves rend my heart" - "this storm is upping like a sleeping giant coming round: the sea here's moved like by tremendous engines" - "furious gusts of wind cleave the sky and set the waves dancing to the sound of the shingle". I never credit Métivier, no matter how many lines of his I steal. Not many know his Whitman-wannabe beard or bard-pose.
Sunday I can see the match from behind my phone and spin a vlog so involved that anyone watching would think I was half-dead from the excitement of a wet, blustery 2-1 at Footes Lane. Even if anyone is watching they'll probably miss the simplest fact of all: my heart beats grave slow; my thoughts wade through sugar-free syrup; my enthusiasm can't get up a gnat's nose never mind anything else. And yet, soft and far from feelings as I am, the world terrifies me.
I see the reflection of myself in my screen and decide it's worth another tweet or two. "elephant bags like saddle full crap" - "cheek bones long gone": gibberish and doggerel. But the likes, one or two at any rate. perk me up again. Feed it into me. A hit here and there is enough to keep me pissing scribbles into the digital cistern.
I couldn't stand to experience the all-seeing outdoors first-hand. To stand by your cigarette-stink and get beer-plashed shoes. To wait for what I want. But if I can see your upload later I'll be happy. A shaky representation on your page leaves the fold undone. The snake-barnetted bint can now sashay off and forget me altogether.
Leave me to my devices. Let the weather do what it wants while I stay sheltered. She can turn someone else to stone, someone who wants to get wet in the rain or wants to be thrown about on the beach. They're welcome to it, happy as I am with my phone.
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