There were two women presenting a television programme about women or for women. They sat side by side. As they said goodbye they both allowed their heads to fall to one side looking at an angle into the camera. The same angle. Goodnight. We all kill ourselves in war. Only ourselves. Television programmes are getting like that. Poetry and prose are really only the same thing. I was wondering about that last night in bed and they are only the same thing. They have different conventions, but they are only the same thing. Music is like that. It is like poetry and prose written without the same words. Otherwise it is like that.
Today I started to control what I was thinking again. Endlessly ordering things.
Lope was talking about her family. Her mother died last year. Her brother says he now feels that his obligation to the family is over. He has said goodbye. He says his obligation is now over. That is how he sees it. He has said goodbye. He is about seventy. They are both about seventy. He says his obligation is over. He lives in South Africa. She lives in Cornwall. Every year they send each other a Christmas card. He visited her for one day last year in Cornwall. It was the first time he had seen her for forty years. He sends her a lightweight Christmas card by airmail every year. He says now his obligation is over. He is about seventy.
It never changes. If that is how it starts it never changes.
The snowdrops are coming up again. I went out to see if they were coming up and they were. Somehow snowdrops are very important. Somehow. They have all happened very suddeny it seems.
Two women were presenting a television programme with their heads on one side. Lope's brother is about seventy. The snowdrops are all coming up again. Somehow it has to be so simple. Nothing here can be unexpected. Nothing at all that is can be unexpected to be. That is how it can all be so simple.