By Christopher Logue
The scene is decided for chilly Calls, the 5th and penultimate instalment of Logue's Homer, an ongoing undertaking - a bit of performance-art for the web page instead of the degree - which has taken a number of many years to spread, and has been defined as, 'Less a translation than an edition. much less an variation actually, than an unique poem of substantial power.' (Derek Mahon)
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Extra info for Cold Calls: War Music Continued
I don’t know why she doesn’t think I can be left on my own. It’s not me that needs telling that men are only after one thing and they leave you once they’ve got it. I know that sex is just sex. Full stop. I’ve always known it, right from the ﬁrst time. I know there’s no point in letting yourself hope for anything else—you just have to enjoy it while he still really really wants you, because he won’t for long. It’s Mum who needs telling, every bloody time. Because it’s not love she falls into, it’s amnesia, and it’s me that hears her crying all night through the wall every time some bastard man makes her memory come back by dumping her.
She turned and went back into the woods, while I trudged on to the Hall. There was a big school clock in the kitchen, the kind where the [ 33 ] e Emma Darwin f second hand moves in slow jerks and you stare and stare at it and can’t believe that a stupid little minute can take sixty of those jerks, because it feels like it’s an hour and geography is never, ever, ever going to end. It’s almost as bad as looking at the alarm clock ticking beyond a boy’s shoulder, and wondering when he’s going to ﬁnish, so that you can breathe properly again, and mop up, and tell him no, really, it was great.
Shouldn’t there be birds singing, if this was the country? The sun beat on my head and back and baked the road so that it burned up through the thin leather of my Indian sandals. It was like it could get you both ways. Kersey village turned out to be about six incredibly old houses on each side of the only street, falling down the hill to a mucky-looking stream that wasn’t even there because of the drought. And the shop was about the size of the sitting room in our smallest-ever ﬂat, with just bread and tins and milk like a corner shop.
Cold Calls: War Music Continued by Christopher Logue