The small, flying people with the big ideas have come back to where I live again. It’s unpleasant watching them, it’s unpleasant hearing them. They are back at the windowsill, my windowsill, and they are trying to get in and scream at me.
They shit on the windowsill and then eat their shit. Then they smile because their own shit is also their own, best, idea of what ideas are.
Their ideas are made with louder voices than my ideas or voices. Their constant and underlying threat of violence is apparent to me. I spend most of my time trying to be inconspicuous.
They keep returning, every Monday morning and every Sunday afternoon in the winter. They fly onto the windowsill and wait until I make a phone call or I speak one of my emails out loud, which I do.
Then they find the flaws and “KraaaW! Kraaaaaw! KraaaW!” they compete with each other to peck into the detail like a graphics whore missing the bigger picture because of that single pixel that blinks out for a reason: a reason that it is essential to divine.
They only want the ideas that they want. They only ever ask the questions that they think they have the answers to. They have no curiosity. They are shouting and screaming, they are violence machines. They want to disanguinate me. They are terrified of death and this means that the whole of the world is trying to kill them. It means that the whole of the afterlife is waiting to judge them. There is no peace for them in any state, so there must be no peace for anybody.
I bought shutters last season. I knew that I couldn’t take another winter of their shrieking and I absolutely couldn’t defend myself, hand to hand, against their threats of violence.
I had never got around to fitting them though. During the good times, well, those times are for higher, more exhilarating activities.
You have counselled me against that attitude, using those parables and fairy tales and the like which, of course I should have paid attention to. But, as you’re aware, that is not the way that any member of my family has operated.
We, you and I June, built this house in order to expand ourselves in every way possible not to hoist shutters or hang extramural doors. We did this because of the bedevilment by small-minded clans and tribes and bureaucracies. The of irony of having to raise barriers, dig ditches and engineer locks of more and more intricate constructions in order to ensure or at least prolong our freedom is not lost on me.
I detest having to do it and, had I any remaining strength, I would no longer stand for it. I just wish that you people would do more to help.
They’re back again.
My family are of no practical use in dealing with this either. As you are aware we do not talk to each other about any subjects that might lead to consternation, argument or conflict of any kind.
Why did you leave me here June? Why did you tell them about me? Why did you leave me? When are you coming home June? I miss you so. I wish I’d never said those things but you made me. It was your fucking fault. But I am sorry.