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

Wednesday, November 16, 2005


All I could do today was imagine myself with an acute handicap, a withered leg that I rested upon a small box. It was not only short, retiring and shy but a moan of a stump of me, something like a mirror attached to my pelvis, catching the sun sometimes, blinding me, sending me away from the security of the box.

I considered that my concern should be with the other leg, wondered whether in fact that that was at fault, at least a reason more for imbalance than sorrow or regret. From now on I decided that my stump would be my fulcrum, my saviour and a friend and that all things in my life henceforth would revolve around the exploits of a world illuminated by limitation.