cellini's Diaryland Diary

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A perfect red crown on the linoleum floor

I am listening to 'Lament for My Suzanne' by Current 93.

"The years tumble away,
and the pain dissipates.
Suzanne's clad in blues
with a mark in her hand.
The lines round her lips
are now scars in my mind."

Some clever person once said that reading a book and wanting to meet the author is rather like eating a steak and wanting to meet the cow. This might be true. And yet there are a few living artists whom I feel that I ought to meet and talk with some day.

John Balance was on that list, but he died some years ago. His death still feels fresh, sudden and raw, although it was 6 years ago.

Some deaths are like that. Eternally fresh, eternally unexpected and raw. Like the first seconds after the knife slips and the white edges of the wound are covered with the rich, red blood in its swollen round border. A broad, swollen drop that has not yet fallen and then it wells up and it drops to the floor and spatters in a perfect round crown on the white linoleum floor.

John Balance's death will always be that slip of the knife, the wound frozen with a swollen drop of blood about to fall.

Other deaths were different. My grandfather's death feels somehow more settled. Will's father was a shock but it was a settled shock.

David Tibet would be worth meeting. And one day I will make a trip back to England to talk with Alan Moore.

9:53 p.m. - 2010-10-18

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