Thats a beautiful bit of brokeback mountain. The image of a dream unravelling out and the way she writes about the caravan, the rattling, and his pissing in the sink, is all earthy. If it was sounds there would be definite filmic clunks and satisfying scrapes and pops to go with it. I adore sounds on film, they're so much better than the half-grasped ones in real life.
I just spoke to a friend whose Mum is dead, and she's a bit off the rails. I don't want to pity her, but sometimes I do want to put my arms round her and tell her not to be lonely- I think she is at the moment, looking for something she can't find. I can't imagine being without my Mum.
Tonight I came back
And Dinner was laid out
The worktops were bare
But I can't do anything useful
If I did it round her I would be aware
Of her watching. Not a criticism, but maybe a knowing
that I was doing it for her benefit. Or she would direct me
Like her puppet, or want me to do it another way, or something else.
So she does it on her own instead.
There's clattering and a series of grunted sighs that announce the travail
A world war in dishcloths and detreitus that
She won't win, or will.
The Hoover's an admonition, cupboard doors repent and scold
Louder than it feels, because these objects
Are her domain and subconscious attention.
Time's wasted and I am wanting in that.
Helping is not enough to rally troops
Nor to staunch the marching flow
Of wash over cup over hoover.
I would like to clear up my life's mess
when it is done for me
I vegitate inanimate useless.
This is how I feel about my Mum and her doing housework.
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