— Lately I’ve been thinking about thinking and its ramifications.
— That’s not something you do while the commercials are on. Or is it?
— No indeed. Would-be philosophers and some poets come apart at the seams trying to do it, and the glue to put them back together again doesn’t exist. Scientists are not even trying to invent it! How uncaring of the scientific community is that?
— I think lots of other people claim to be thinking too, although now I might have to list some of them my enthusiasm, if you can call it that, for what I just said has suddenly evaporated.
— Enthusiasm is a rare commodity these days. At least, justifiable enthusiasm is.
— It’s certainly not in any of the supermarkets.
— I don’t know if it’s the current condition of the world, the country, the city, the town, the village, the hamlet, the cottage in the middle of nowhere, the shack in the woods, the cardboard box at the back of a petrol station on the A614, a carrier bag blowing across the waste land where a row of terraced houses were knocked down, I think it was Something Road, and there’s someone living in that carrier bag, it’s a rather rambling wandery existence to say the least, at the mercy of the whimsical wind . . .
— No, I don’t know either.
— Anyway, I said to Aurora, I said, I’ve been thinking about thinking, and a heck of a lot of good it does. A chap might as well go online and look at Russian women cashing in on chaps who go online to look at them. I didn’t say that to Aurora, though. She can be touchy sometimes.
— Well, they are beautiful, those former Soviets, like chaffinches or parrots or some other bird of the ornithological family who clasp betwixt their feathery fingers the heart salve and eye balm of luxury cream merchants in time of employment drought as a version of temporary but satisfying brain ointment, or something along those lines. It’s the influence of the tundra, or the steppes, or something geographical.
— Yes. And so like I was saying, lately I’ve been thinking about thinking and where it leads, and it took me to the prairies and their life of dogs, deserts and nomads carrying their homes with them in their bones, riding horses etc., expanses of water called sea, depths reaching to the other side of the world, sky which is space, the void, and whatever the void has in it, which may not be much . . .
— I’m reminded of a poem, I can’t remember who it was by. I can remember some of it:
                        “blueish and hungry elongated sequences
                        of randomly mouthed constructions so lost treasure-seeking
                        magpie laundry crash-landing faked all those broken
                        times but can never ever really say it, and”
I think that’s how it went. I may not have it exact. It was a very long poem, it went on for about three years.
— That’s brill because it’s basically senseless verging on the inane. I love that kind of thing. I probably think too much, to be honest, the exact opposite of whoever wrote that.
—  Well, you are that kind of potato.
— I am that kind of potato.
— You are.
— I am.



Martin Stannard


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