On Death. ( A Post in 6 parts).

I.
Early this morning I was tossing and turning in my bed, slit-eyed at the first light that was managing to infiltrate my room, and grit-jawed at my own darkness which had laid claim to me in the night. 'Dawn be damned,' it/I said.

Hi-jacked for the day I made busy. Cleaning. Shopping. Sorting. Reorganising. And yes, running. I pounded the pavement, venturing further than I had so far. It helps. O tomorrow I'll be sore. Sore beats angst (paper covers rock).

The strange thing is that since I've taken up jogging, I've been dreaming it too. In my dreams I am strong and never tire. I run the length of the town, run the hill at the end of my street, run along the landing strips of the airport, and beyond.
Just as though I would live forver.

II.
I have begun reading for my grand project. First up: Breton's 'Manifesto of Surrealism' and Artaud's 'The Theatre and its Double' which already has me tracking back to Nin's diaries and wondering who in fact she did and didn't sleep with.

III.
The black dog is an unruly bastard. He really isn't mine. Maybe I'll put up some posters, somebody might lay claim.

IV.
I am considering a french polish. In honour of Anais.
Tomorrow I would like to don a red velvet cape and run off to a liquid lunch with Henry Miller. Alas. What I'll actually do is step out into the great wet blanket of the monsoon season plastered with repellant to guard against the outbreak of Dengue fever which is IN MY STREET as I write.

V.
Yesterday someone I know died suddenly. This goes a long way to explaining I. and III.

VI.
Life's too short etc. I won't bang on about it.
I will, however, recommend jogging and philosophy.
That is, of course, if you aren't in love.