Your Electric Light

When we need it, your electric light is there to find feet in the tangled night-time woods, traipsed recklessly. Whisky vision is good enough to reason with a small cliff-face, to spot a foothold, best yet to be delighted by it. The woods feel wilder than the ones I grew up with, and there’s no doubting I know them not a bit. Whisky only makes the heart grow unremittant, more fevered, lots of other things, more forgetful without losing reaction to it all. I forgot to navigate. A trickled stream makes itself known visually, almost catches your ankle, and a vague notion is swigged by my far too wandering mind delightful; streams run down, to the river, to the path, but we smiled relentless away from it, losing little. It feels like what it looks like, any time, from setting out to long before the dawn and there is no timepiece comes to eye, and it pleases me. I could die out here; I could live out here; brambles tear at legs and you, like me, keep walking. It is a universal truth, particularly applicable in the midst of flowing whisky, that there are no wrong turns when travelling blind. Very easy, and surprising to tree-trained eyes, a clearing strolls for seven yards ahead and the moon is visible only just. We sit or collapse, though not exhausted, and the still-flowered very early autumn stretch of woodland grass is not big enough to be a destination. We decide anyway, with almost nominal scepticism from some quarters, that the next leg of the journey is return. And that’s much quicker.

Your electric light proved as useful on the way back as it did on the outward clamber, maybe more so. We made it, as you know, to the safety of our harbour. The night’s sleep, though grizzled by whisky, was restful from adventure; morning, just lately, feels longer ago.

Next time, or the same time because the past has not kept grip sufficient, if I have my way, there will be no return journey, no thought of batteries. Your electric light will come from eyes and, converging with my eyes, and her eyes, and his eyes, will be light enough to grow the universe, make a clearing home; the roof dangling from clouds, the trees already walls, the sea nearer this time, and that patch in sunlight there looks to be a field of corn to me. Guitar alright with the smoke from fire come night-time, significant soon to birds, there is moonshine aplenty, but really we’re drunk from that and from actual shining of the moon, from crispest air, from your electric light, but mostly we’re drunk from that moonshine whisky and it tastes so very good.

Exponential Nostril Death (Part Two)

Dr Rudolph in those days, lest we forget, was young; not a child by any means, late twenties, early thirties, perhaps, it’s hard to say, but young enough to be considered precocious still, and as a consequence almost beyond reproach, in a sickly sort of way. His seemingly more than twice half its length string of ultimately correct corrections and contradictions of fellow clinicians, whose seniority should in theory have kept him cowed and incontinent, might have proved a source of envy were it not for the overriding, almost unwitting reverence induced in those positioned to envy by the cold near-nonchalance of Dr Rudolph’s response to often grudging, always sincere acknowledgement of his success. Dr Rudolph was very good at his job. He took the lunch break he was entitled by law to take.

He sat on a bench out towards the south-west corner of the hospital garden with a steak and kidney pie and a healthy dose of sauerkraut, and he partook of it heartily, a hint of a breeze assisting; variation in location for the eating of meals has always been important to Dr Rudolph (the previous day he had eaten by the lake in the park, some ten miles walk from the hospital), but nothing was so important as fresh air; he was a firm believer in the virtues of fresh air, but more pertinently, he felt them. As he finished the crust that more people than don’t leave till last, Dr Rudolph began to mull over the case at hand, that of Claire of the nose bleeds. He had with him a veritable tome concerned with every aspect of epistaxis, but more as a talisman for the process of thought than as an actual practical aid. He didn’t need it for that anyway, or rather he wouldn’t have had epistaxis been his principal focus. As it was, its primary function was inevitably to keep Dr Rudolph’s bag from flapping should the wind pick up. The wind didn’t pick up, and his short walk back to the hospital building was accompanied by an unseasonable flowering of the sun.

Business thickened significantly for the afternoon, and Dr Rudolph spent an uninterrupted four hours in his band of active meditation, healing the tedious sick. He was never oblivious however; he never succumbed to the lure of the motor function that is the dead-eyed application of the textbook and the manifestation of the boredom reflex. There were instances that afternoon of the common cold, of glandular fever, a broken finger, hepatitis A, hives and a semi-regular patient with intermittent urinary tract difficulties. She wasn’t pretty. Dr Rudolph kept his mind active on a number of levels, as was his wont, and it was just after six when the clinic closed its doors for the day. It was then time for freshening up, for taking a few deep breaths should they be necessary, which they needn’t be to be taken anyway. Dr Rudolph took none, but he did take a shower, and it was pushing seven when he began to make his leisurely way through the corridors, and up to see Claire. His mind was clear; he knew precisely his course of action. He didn’t have to wait for the lift, and was soon ascending.