The Grim . . . .

We sway with wild winds that are beyond our hands. And too often we listen to the guidance of fools and cowards, and sometimes we don’t listen enough. We should watch the spiders run from the new fire and realise that maybe they’ve got something on us. They just might have seen the final hand and thrown it in before the foundations crumble. Because when it reaches the point when drink does nothing, and the company of friends does nothing, and even watching the sweeping of a street in the good sunlight fails to light the green from fresh leaves, there is a problem
“Folk’s I’m going down…”
Our lead male role has dropped out. Rehearsals are falling by the wayside like the sailors who jump knowing that they cannot swim, but the cold water will be faster than the slow soft filling of their lungs. Halden theatre swallows the brine and cannot smile today. We struggle to get performance venues, costume ideas seem impracticable and far fetched for even the most delusional snake oil and lead salesman.
Daniel sits in his living room while we sift the coffee gains from our teeth and next to him I sleep. We have a fireplace front, and that is about it. And with my belly still full of wine, we wait to allow the day to slip behind us, to the tiger of this harsh and brutal night and to the soft beating of the heavy cold and the guttural wail of failure and fatigue that will engulf it all eventually.

“To the St James infirmary, see my baby there…”