Thursday, 5 January 2006

Taking Down the Tree

The time has come to empty out these cupboards, with their stowed away sticks of cinnamon and obsolete honey jars, and leave this old house. Tonight I begin to assemble my books; tomorrow I take down the tree. With the departure, a silence has been interrupted and a presence, determined by the assimilation of history, attained. When I came to this house I set about writing the history of memory and the rise of its ruin. The hour of melancholy was disproved through turning nostalgia on its head. Even at this height, with the sea beneath me, decline became the means by which progress was seized. That the work is effectively complete and its future settled means I can approach it from a distance, now spatial as well as temporal. It stands before me, just as this place does tonight, complete in its incompletion: