'One cannot speak anymore of being, one must speak only of mess.' - Samuel Beckett

Friday, July 22, 2005


I was due in London on the day of the bombings. I was late for my train. With the events unfolding I took my thoughts for a ride on my bike and tried to get some fix on things, some kind of centrepoint to make a sense out of slaughter. You can't of course so I reached for brevity, keeping my mouth shut, not thinking at all. Cycling through a graveyard I saw this young Alsation bounding across the grass and through the stones with an agility at odds with the apparatus that she was bound to. The young dogs back legs were paralysed but she was unimpeaded, smiling as only a dog can. She was hope.