noontime of unmoving stone. Afternoon of blue dust,
evening of limbs in weary dissolve.
In response to Via Negativa: Deep Time.
Monsoon
Mist turns to rain, then windows
curtain with fog.
Months of watching doorways
grow ruffs of green, fronds
dimpling the wood. We unroll
parchment on the table, take out
our inks and instruments. One of us
climbs to the roof with a spyglass,
calls out the shapes of islands
emerging from the dark.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Deep time
Lay long in bed. This morning my cozen Thomas Pepys, the turner, sent me a cupp of lignum vitae for a token. This morning my wife and I went to Paternoster Row, and there we bought some green watered moyre for a morning wastecoate. And after that we went to Mr. Cade’s to choose some pictures for our house. After that my wife went home, and I to Pope’s Head, and bought me an aggate hafted knife, which cost me 5s. So home to dinner, and so to the office all the afternoon, and at night to my viallin (the first time that I have played on it since I came to this house) in my dining room, and afterwards to my lute there, and I took much pleasure to have the neighbours come forth into the yard to hear me.
So down to supper, and sent for the barber, who staid so long with me that he was locked into the house, and we were fain to call up Griffith, to let him out. So up to bed, leaving my wife to wash herself, and to do other things against to-morrow to go to court.
Morning of green water
and agate knife—
the first barber—
stayed so long that we let
tomorrow go.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 21 November 1660.
Insomnia
About two o’clock my wife wakes me, and comes to bed, and so both to sleep and the wench to wash.
I rose and with Will to my Lord’s by land, it being a very hard frost, the first we have had this year. There I staid with my Lord and Mr. Shepley, looking over my Lord’s accounts and to set matters straight between him and Shepley, and he did commit the viewing of these accounts to me, which was a great joy to me to see that my Lord do look upon me as one to put trust in.
Hence to the organ, where Mr. Child and one Mr Mackworth (who plays finely upon the violin) were playing, and so we played till dinner and then dined, where my Lord in a very good humour and kind to me.
After dinner to the Temple, where I met Mr. Moore and discoursed with him about the business of putting out my Lord’s 3000l., and that done, Mr. Shepley and I to the new Play-house near Lincoln’s-Inn-Fields (which was formerly Gibbon’s tennis-court), where the play of “Beggar’s Bush” was newly begun; and so we went in and saw it, it was well acted: and here I saw the first time one Moone, who is said to be the best actor in the world, lately come over with the King, and indeed it is the finest play-house, I believe, that ever was in England.
From thence, after a pot of ale with Mr. Shepley at a house hard by, I went by link home, calling a little by the way at my father’s and my uncle Fenner’s, where all pretty well, and so home, where I found the house in a washing pickle, and my wife in a very joyful condition when I told her that she is to see the Queen next Thursday.
Which puts me in mind to say that this morning I found my Lord in bed late, he having been with the King, Queen, and Princess, at the Cockpit all night, where General Monk treated them; and after supper a play, where the King did put a great affront upon Singleton’s musique, he bidding them stop and bade the French musique play, which, my Lord says, do much outdo all ours.
But while my Lord was rising, I went to Mr. Fox’s, and there did leave the gilt tankard for Mrs. Fox, and then to the counting-house to him, who hath invited me and my wife to dine with him on Thursday next, and so to see the Queen and Princesses.
Sleep was hard as a beggar’s moon,
hard as joy to a king:
all night rising to leave,
counting princesses.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 20 November 1660.
Common Lot
Shoes for the shoeless, clothes for the naked; sand for the floor, cloud for tarp. Sheathed in black latex, elbow to elbow, thigh to thigh. No room to swerve, no more emergency lanes. Turn off your blinkers, take down the signs. Say little, or say much: all of it will be appropriate. (Just not the politician’s face on stickers, adorning grocery bags.) Neat rows, stacked, like in a capsule hotel. But there are no room numbers, no keys; no luggage to stash behind the welcome counter, no one to answer to the dinner bell.
In response to Via Negativa: Geomancy.
Solicidal
(Office day). After we had done a little at the office this morning, I went with the Treasurer in his coach to White Hall, and in our way, in discourse, do find him a very good-natured man; and, talking of those men who now stand condemned for murdering the King, he says that he believes that, if the law would give leave, the King is a man of so great compassion that he would wholly acquit them.
Going to my Lord’s I met with Mr. Shepley, and so he and I to the Sun, and I did give him a morning draft of Muscadine. And so to see my Lord’s picture at De Cretz, and he says it is very like him, and I say so too. After that to Westminster Hall, and there hearing that Sir W. Batten was at the Leg in the Palace, I went thither, and there dined with him and some of the Trinity House men who had obtained something to-day at the House of Lords concerning the Ballast Office.
After dinner I went by water to London to the Globe in Cornhill, and there did choose two pictures to hang up in my house, which my wife did not like when I came home, and so I sent the picture of Paris back again. To the office, where we sat all the afternoon till night. So home, and there came Mr. Beauchamp to me with the gilt tankard, and I did pay him for it 20l.. So to my musique and sat up late at it, and so to bed, leaving my wife to sit up till 2 o’clock that she may call the wench up to wash.
I find a man talking
of murdering the sun
like a bat in the palace.
He went to London
to hang like a picture,
all gilt and ash.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 19 November 1660.
Stage Directions
Thirst and dreams in the middle of the night. Smoked herring in oil; sardines, anchovies. Capers and capelin roe. This strange, intense longing for salt, unkillable like a roach that skitters out from under the shelves as soon as the lights are doused. Nervous twitching behind walls, beneath the floorboards. Don’t give me a fake geode to lick; let me have a bead of citrine, a yellow sapphire, a tiger’s-eye, a crystal facet around which to fit my tongue. In other words, the thing itself: because everything else would be poor copy. I groom my retinue of desires to impeccable standards— only the best will do. I march them through daily drills, hup hup; review their syntax, applaud all vaults and clumsy dismounts, attempts to clear the pommel horse. Up high, the bars and wires glint sharper than walls in a knife thrower’s gallery. But darlings, don’t fret. You work hard, you’re lovely as newborn lyrics. Don’t worry yourselves about the weather, ticket sales, secret shoppers, masquerading critics, the ennui of the damned. Don’t pay attention to anything but the beautiful wings waving you onward, the ones that flush the currant bushes with color and sound.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Time thief
(Lord’s day). In the morning to our own church, where Mr. Powel (a crook legged man that went formerly with me to Paul’s School), preached a good sermon.
In the afternoon to our own church and my wife with me (the first time that she and my Lady Batten came to sit in our new pew), and after sermon my Lady took us home and there we supped with her and Sir W. Batten, and Pen, and were much made of. The first time that ever my wife was there. So home and to bed.
In church, a crook
preached to the new
pew and took
much time.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 18 November 1660.
Fibrous
Cable
me a slow
pullover,
a screen,
a reedy mat
over which
I’ll moon-
walk bent,
your scent
the riddle
in every
rune.
In response to Via Negativa: The Way I Feel.
Old salt
In the morning to Whitehall, where I inquired at the Privy Seal Office for a form for a nobleman to make one his Chaplain. But I understanding that there is not any, I did draw up one, and so to my Lord’s, and there I did give him it to sign for Mr. Turner to be his first Chaplain. I did likewise get my Lord to sign my last sea accounts, so that I am even to this day when I have received the balance of Mr. Creed.
I dined with my Lady and my Lady Pickering, where her son John dined with us, who do continue a fool as he ever was since I knew him. His mother would fain marry him to get a portion for his sister Betty but he will not hear of it.
Hither came Major Hart this noon, who tells me that the Regiment is now disbanded, and that there is some money coming to me for it. I took him to my Lord to Mr. Crew’s, and from thence with Mr. Shepley and Mr. Moore to the Devil Tavern, and there we drank. So home and wrote letters by the post. Then to my lyra viall, and to bed.
The seal is chaplain to the sea;
I am her fool.
I took my crew to the devil,
and there we drank.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 17 November 1660.