Mirrors Are Murderers

Mr Markham died at 93. I watched him die during the middle of the night. It was an extraordinary experience to watch a man die ‘of natural causes’. In an ideal world that is how everyone would die; in their bed and in their sleep. The last coherent thing he said was, “All you can do is leave the taps running.” I had no idea if he was talking gibberish or being cryptically wise. Either way, my taps are so tightly sealed that they don’t drip a drop.

This text dies at 93 (entries). 100 is a nice round number but 93 is good enough.

I am done (as Americans say with enviable decisiveness): trying, fighting, caring, suffering, resisting.

The text got away from me. I could no longer approach it objectively. It became a victim of events and as such was no longer mine to control. It turned into a lifeline, which is no basis for the kind of writing I was attempting.

The last 10 texts were written far too hastily but they stand. When I asked G if she thought one of them was good enough to be included, she hesitated but said, “Ye-e-e-s, in the broader scheme of Ether.”

I have revised all 10 of them. You, Whom I is my most regrettable entry but I am too tired to write something new to replace it. A lot got cut from it. I am proud of Boris Gets a Manicure; it is a shame so few people read it (and that Boris was effectively killed off; I loved my Boris).

I changed the pivotal passage about language in the ludicrously named Last Tango in Karoliniškės. It is much better now or, rather, a few lexemes closer to what I was trying to say.

For the record, I never liked the title Into the Ether (I could have called it The Man Who Cried Wolf) but I was advised not to change it so that people would be able to find their way here via old and existing readers. Let’s hope that’s the case.

Thank you to my few faithful readers.

I will now

 

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One thought on “Mirrors Are Murderers

  1. Thank YOU. Your texts were a gust of fresh air in this dismal and hapless reality. Your words gave me the same joyous feeling as when I first picked up a copy of ‘Molloy’ and read it while being just a confused teenager. And as my beloved Beckett once put it: “You must go on. I can’t go on. I’ll go on.”

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