Sinister: A patterned-stockinged Dream

[Saint Peter]

Has it been so long?

So long in your terms, that is....  In the Great Stretch Of Eternity it
registers, quite literally, as nothing.

I'm sorry.  I should introduce myself.  My Name is Saint Peter.  I am an
Angel Of The Lord And Divine Emissary.  And I'm a very busy man.  A very
busy man.
There's so much to do these days.  Hardly a day goes by without Some bunch
of aggrieved new arrivals showing up at the Gates of Heaven.  There's a lot
of talk of revenge...most of them talk of revenge...revenge revenge
revenge... I don't mind telling you, it gets fucking boring after a while.
It wasn't cool when the medievals did it and it isn't cool when you lot do
it now.

Anyway.. I digress.  And I shouldn't digress.  I'm a very busy man.
Except I'm not actually a man.. not technically.. but don't let that bother
you. It is too hard to explain.  And I shouldn't digress.  I'm a very
busy.... yes, very busy.
I spoke to you once before.  I was on your Earth for a brief period, and I
had a quest.  I had spent too long away from Heaven, and I had been
dreaming.  Angels don't dream.  And they certainly don't dream of love....
not The Love the dead poets talk of, and sweet buggery christ there's a lot
of them round here.  I used to see them coming, and cross the road to avoid
them.  A fucking pretentious bunch, most of them, always quoting themselves
and offering that as truth.  I tell them I've seen The Truth and it would
scare the shit out of them, but most of them just laugh.

Anyway, one day I got stuck in a lift with Sylvia Plath.  The last person
you want to get stuck in a lift with, frankly.  She was top of my list of
people to avoid, along with Barbara Cartland.  Always running up to men and
accusing them of being Nazis.. and there was a terrible hubbub when her
husband turned up here a few years back.  In the end, he got so fed up he
re-incarnated.  A thought-fox, from what I remember.

But I digress, and I shouldn't digress.
Stuck in a lift with Sylvia Plath.  She stands in the corner, rambling to
herself, after attention as always.  She still hasn't realised that the
point of heaven is that everyone has time for everyone else, and you'll get
all the attention you need in the course of eternity.  I don't think she'll
realise that for a while, trapped in herself.  Anyway, I'm staring at the
ceiling, staring at the nymphs playing water-cello in the corner, staring at
the satyrs fucking on the chaise-longue, looking at ANYTHING but this bird
standing next to me, muttering to herself about bees.  If I'd had a penis,
I'd have taken it out and waved it at her.  Jim Morrison tells me that
usually keeps people away.  Sadly, that isn't an option.  Eventually, she
walks right on over, looks me directly in the face and out it comes.  She
delivers it slowly, and she ennunciates every syllable.  Poets do.  Most of
'em.  'cept the ones that are too stoned to talk:

'The box is only temporary'  she says.  I smile, and thank her, and stare at
the ceiling a little more.... but she's said something... she's started my
brain.  And I don't like it when that happens.  I'm too busy to have my
brain started.  I've go things to do.. There's a big party from Iraq
expected at any moment...dazed, confused civilians with no idea what has
happened.  It'll take some explaining... but its too late... around and
around...buzzing in my head... the box is only temporary...the box is only
temporary...

And I remember...I remember what I'd forgotten.
It all comes back.  A face on a screen... a picture of Her.  The woman I
have dreamt of..

us
me and her
running through fields of opium, her patterned stockings
cast aside, flying
high
into skies that will never darken
whilst we remain
underneath, blissful
loving

Fuck, spend too long around the likes of Percy Shelley and you too will
start spouting shite....  And not just because of the syphillis..


Isobel Campbell..

whilst on Earth, I had searched for her.  Birmingham, Coventry,
Cambridge...three of the four corners of the world.  I resolved to take
another unpaid, unofficial leave.  The Big Guy doesn't really give us
leave...just tells us that working here should be pleasure enough in itself.
Easy for him to say.  Spends all day sitting under trees with The Buddha,
throwing stones at passing children.

But, I'm leaving....and I'm coming back to Earth to find her...and this time
I'm going to plan it properly..
The last clue I had...an address in Cambridge.  I had turned up to meet her
and I got caught on some CCTV camera.  The Big J saw me and called me
back....said I'd let him down three times before, and if I didn't want my
job I could fuck off, there are always vacancies in...other places...he told
me, and we both knew what he meant..

I was in Cambridge.  I think I found her..

Administration and Support in the Department of Applied Economics
>
>>Isobel Campbell-Stewart Librarian  Bella.Campbell-Stewart at econ.cam.ac.uk


I still don't know what a Stewart Librarian is.  Time to find out.

I shall choose a pleasing coutenance... something classic but not classical,
something suave but not too sophisticated..  Gregory Peck, circa
'Spellbound'... but somehow a little more...twee... and I shall wear
corduroy.

And I shall meet her.  The librarian.  The singer.  The cellist

Isobel

my darling

my love.

xx

Saint P





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