Thank you to the shy man who wouldn't meet my eye. Skip diving for a living, talking your madness out to your dog. I am the balance of your 17 year old Karmic debt.
Thank you smily Shabs for squeezing me into the back of your Toyota Celica with an equally smily child and headscarved wife. I would not have expected you to pick me up.
Thank you to the music producer, international traveller and unselfconsciously rich. I am your many opposites but equally free.
Thank you to the biker couple who halted my mile long trudge on a fast road. There was no need for you to stop for me.
Thank you to the crazy van couple, smoking poppies and talking of robbing people. I don't want any smack thanks but I still like you.
From angels to opiates in the twist of a thumb; all went out of their way for me, equally.
Thursday, 10 September 2009
Certain flashes of Cardiff
Stencil mission, late night striding. Watching the streets for paint opportunities and oblivious passers by. Far ahead, too far to notice me, a man whirls around the pavement. Martial moves with a baseball bat, his shirtless skin glows orange in the late lights. I approach, slow, purposeful, not to be deterred or deviated from my path. Once seen he curls into defence and faces me, ready to whip out. I keep his eyes and keep my movement. His gaze is bright from behind his Halloween mask and I see the grinning skull face break into laughter as, when we are about to touch, he spins away and lets me pass. I smile.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Candle burning in the window of an empty house. I sit, no fear of being seen, on a bare mattress. My room is cosy but if I open the door, hollow darkness looms beyond; only orange streetlight flashes lighting odd corners of corridors. I am on the edge of loneliness until I am conforted by a text from a friend. Even solo I am not alone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bike riding, cool cruising. On a BMX that gets headturns from kids and skagheads. I go all over the city, through street after street that looks the same. Only the people are different. I pass effortlessly through their many bubbles, a multitude of existences, many languages spring into my ears. Pedal pushing, no effort, eating celery in hot sun on my way past the prison. Beer in a park then find Gaz and we go to his allotment. More beer by the river, dirt on my hands and I'm floating on concrete in the afternoon air. Sunset clouds stretch ahead like a peacock feather quilt.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Candle burning in the window of an empty house. I sit, no fear of being seen, on a bare mattress. My room is cosy but if I open the door, hollow darkness looms beyond; only orange streetlight flashes lighting odd corners of corridors. I am on the edge of loneliness until I am conforted by a text from a friend. Even solo I am not alone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bike riding, cool cruising. On a BMX that gets headturns from kids and skagheads. I go all over the city, through street after street that looks the same. Only the people are different. I pass effortlessly through their many bubbles, a multitude of existences, many languages spring into my ears. Pedal pushing, no effort, eating celery in hot sun on my way past the prison. Beer in a park then find Gaz and we go to his allotment. More beer by the river, dirt on my hands and I'm floating on concrete in the afternoon air. Sunset clouds stretch ahead like a peacock feather quilt.
afternoons in the garden
Recent drops of soft rain are shining on leaves and all the plants around me are drinking from the earth. A shabby gate, old black boards slowly greening from the bottom upwards. I can see through the slats to three hens and their cockerel, picking and packing round their stony enclosure to discover what changed during their overnight confinement. Small, squat little birds zigzag from the trees, snatching grain. I turn up the radio and walk away; our defence against foxes is a quiet burble of Radio 4, talking to no-one but keeping alive a small human presence in a corner of the landscape. Discontertingly at first, until recognised, the sound drifts through the garden. Deep conversational voices, in their recognisable rhythym, soon recede into a low background murmur. A constant in light and darkness, the steady cadence of the radio, and I think the patient earth, is there, whenever you turn to listen to it.
Single lives like spent matches, their presence a flame.
Guano streaks down the rock face as birds drip off the sheer cliff and wind round the air in black and white semicircles. This is an image of a valley, a vista. In the centre of a rolling sweep of rounded mountains, two chunks of granite jerk, slab sided, out of the flat valley floor. The prehistoric shapes of cormorants fly above me, heading down for their fish supper. But first they must traverse, over road and river. Drifting like the clouds over sugarlump caravans and broccoli trees they swoop out to the sea, 5 miles hence. Waves crash no longer against this granite nest, it faces only the ripples of a sea of wheat. The water left 8000 years ago; the valley now drained and settled, only the seabirds remain.
Monday, 8 June 2009
another world, just a car park away
So here I sit in the Port of Dover, toes poking out of multiple holes in my socks and a proper fruity stink on. A fat Chinese man is snoring; he's laid out in a strange position on the always uncomfortable seats and his round little son has just gently slapped him awake. There's something intrinsically Oriental about the slapping gesture, I'm not sure what parts of my brain are firing to tell me that. A couple are conversing quietly in an Eastern European language. They have the wan pallour and faded, forest coloured clothes of the sensibly middle aged.
I can't stop thinking about the 3 boys I met in Calais. Arriving at the ferry port in the centre of a clamour of delayed ferries, striking fishermen and cars bulging with distressed Brits and the many many possessions they needed for a 2 week continental holiday was too much. I left my suitcase and walked, determinedly in a straight line towards the edge of the sand dunes. The 8 or 10 figures on the edges of the clumps of brambles melted away as I approached and I had to wait a while, even wave once before 3 giggling men came towards me, pushing and nudging each other. They were boys not men, no more than 19. I expected them to be from Morocco or the African continent but they weren't. They were from Afghanistan and suddenly their faces jumped in front of me and reassembled into the wild eyes and wind rounded faces that I've only ever seen in shiny magazines.
I gave them food and tobacco and my wind up torch. One of the boys put the cigarette in his mouth the wrong way round, fortunately, when I unthinkingly reached out and corrected it, he smiled at me with his mistake. I showed them my wind up torch and when I lit it and flicked it round to point at them, an inch from cigarette boy's belly he jumped and put his hands up in shock. What did he think it was?
They answered my stupid, frustratingly functional questions - where are you from? How did you get here? I had no way to connect enough with them to be able to ask why. Why do you want to come to England so badly? What's it like where you come from? Do you know that most English people don't want you in their country? Why do you still say England is good when we do so much wrong in the world? Who are you? Why are you smiling?
I walked away, across the car park and back into the queues of uptight people in badly fitting clothing, complaining because they'd been waiting 4 hours and hadn't had any free sandwiches and they're sure those French counter ladies are lying to them about the wait and isn't it a disgrace that this is happening to them. Their whole holidays are ruined. Fucking, fucking, fucking, fucking IDIOTS.
I am left frustrated and unfulfilled by my brief encounter and I've been trying to understand why. I think it's because all the things I actually wanted to give them were intangible - my British passport, my ability to go anywhere in the world and speak my own language, the help that is just a phonecall away, my freedom.
This morning I woke up in a wood in the south of France, near Bordeaux. I didn't have a tent so I found a fallen tree and crawled beneath the drooping branches. I felt very open to the earth and thankful. I awoke to a beautiful sunrise, steam rising from a nearby lake and a light frost on the ground.
Now I'm sitting in a ferry terminal under florescent light. There's a plastic plant next to me with a label in it that says "Asset Verification 2007". I just touched the pebbles at the base of the plant. They're glued down.
I can't stop thinking about the 3 boys I met in Calais. Arriving at the ferry port in the centre of a clamour of delayed ferries, striking fishermen and cars bulging with distressed Brits and the many many possessions they needed for a 2 week continental holiday was too much. I left my suitcase and walked, determinedly in a straight line towards the edge of the sand dunes. The 8 or 10 figures on the edges of the clumps of brambles melted away as I approached and I had to wait a while, even wave once before 3 giggling men came towards me, pushing and nudging each other. They were boys not men, no more than 19. I expected them to be from Morocco or the African continent but they weren't. They were from Afghanistan and suddenly their faces jumped in front of me and reassembled into the wild eyes and wind rounded faces that I've only ever seen in shiny magazines.
I gave them food and tobacco and my wind up torch. One of the boys put the cigarette in his mouth the wrong way round, fortunately, when I unthinkingly reached out and corrected it, he smiled at me with his mistake. I showed them my wind up torch and when I lit it and flicked it round to point at them, an inch from cigarette boy's belly he jumped and put his hands up in shock. What did he think it was?
They answered my stupid, frustratingly functional questions - where are you from? How did you get here? I had no way to connect enough with them to be able to ask why. Why do you want to come to England so badly? What's it like where you come from? Do you know that most English people don't want you in their country? Why do you still say England is good when we do so much wrong in the world? Who are you? Why are you smiling?
I walked away, across the car park and back into the queues of uptight people in badly fitting clothing, complaining because they'd been waiting 4 hours and hadn't had any free sandwiches and they're sure those French counter ladies are lying to them about the wait and isn't it a disgrace that this is happening to them. Their whole holidays are ruined. Fucking, fucking, fucking, fucking IDIOTS.
I am left frustrated and unfulfilled by my brief encounter and I've been trying to understand why. I think it's because all the things I actually wanted to give them were intangible - my British passport, my ability to go anywhere in the world and speak my own language, the help that is just a phonecall away, my freedom.
This morning I woke up in a wood in the south of France, near Bordeaux. I didn't have a tent so I found a fallen tree and crawled beneath the drooping branches. I felt very open to the earth and thankful. I awoke to a beautiful sunrise, steam rising from a nearby lake and a light frost on the ground.
Now I'm sitting in a ferry terminal under florescent light. There's a plastic plant next to me with a label in it that says "Asset Verification 2007". I just touched the pebbles at the base of the plant. They're glued down.
Thursday, 31 January 2008
snow face
high up in the hills. A road winds below us but there are no cars on it. We are all alone, the only movement is the slow turning of the wind mills above us. Gigantic shafts of metal swoop elegantly through the air, they are slow and seemingly unstoppable. They pull energy out of the air and wind it over and over between the metal meshing of cogs until it is caught and changed, pinned into battery acid and potential. Everything is white. Snow on the ground, snow in the air, white towers of metal. Snow covers the 20 hill tops I can see when I turn in a circle. Our red faces and black jackets would mark us out as ants from the air. We are building a snowman that no-one else will ever see. He has stumps for hands, a face made out of sheepshit and a huge spiky mohican. We've been working on it for so long that we've stopped talking. The snowman has taken over, he's all we can concentrate on. The panorama of hills and snow reduces in focus to this small hilltop where we pack more and more snow onto our creation. Smooth his chest, whiten his face, pack his mohican spikier and taller. More snow starts to fall and it swirls delicately around the flushed face of the man I love. We work together on our task.
We are the only people in the world.
We are the only people in the world.
Wednesday, 30 January 2008
the time I was nearly royalty
so the piano playing in the previous post reminded me of a really good memory at the start of my trip to Milan.
Staff night out the night before. The usual boring meal, tinkle talk and compliments on the food. The boss gets over excited and flushed. Not her fault, she's got a kid and doesn't get out much. Then we walk down the street, strain off the parents and oldies and it's on to the main event - double rum and cokes and bullshit at the bar. Riff with the leather dreadlocks guy and flirt with the stripy hoodie. Would do either, might do both, will probably end up with neither. The bouncers don't like my mates face so we walk head first into the sea blasts and go to the castle. Drink, drink, drink, drink, drink more and I end up at a house in town at 7 am with the dreadlock guy holding my hand under the table while I watch the uptight office girl smoking weed through a potato pipe.
Wake up at midday. BAMM. My fucking head is split in two. Roll off the bed and roll into the clothes from the nights before. I can hardly see as I stagger round the house, shouting cunt at the top of my voice is the only thing that makes me feel better. Films, cameras, passport and tickets; in a bag with some pants and a hat for luck. Bristol airport. Fuck, I'm so late. I should have left at 11. Plane at 4. Fuck, fuck fuck. Drive like a mentalist down the motorway, screech into the long stay car park, all the stuff falls out of my bag. I'm standing shaking as the security guard pats me down. If she touches my stomach I'm gonna puke on her. Get to the departure gate. 5 minutes to go. Sleep on the plane, 3 seats for myself, 2 hours later and I'm in Milan.
I've gone through tired and into wired. Walking isn't an effort any more but I still don't know where I'm going. Not booking anything seemed like such a good idea when I was at home but now it's 22.30 in a big city and I've got nowhere to go. Hotel? First one I see? Fake wood reception and plastic plants? Starched white impersonal sheets and a pastel picture on the wall. Not worth my money. Don't know where you are until you open the curtains in the morning. Fucking rip offs. I ain't paying for a plastic experience. So where am I going to go then? Eat. I need food too. The only food place I've seen so far was the McDonalds by the station entrance. Fuck that too.
I'm walking towards a restaurant, it has a long piece of red carpet leading to the door - they do that in Milan - and a little lit up menu on the wall. Inside the door is a pyramid of fruit, dripping with grapes and a multi-colour feast of fish on ice. Damm, too much money. I walk away. Then stop. Then come back. Fucking insecure, indecisive self.
Walk in, I hold up a single finger and I'm ushered to my seat. I don't want to be English so I change into a mute. Point to the menus, point to the bread. Smile, make lots of eye contact. Point to the wine list. My stomach is violently rejecting the thought of more booze but I force down the start of a bottle of merlot. And sit. And look around. And realise that I'm in a beautiful, calming place. The room is white with a high ceiling. There are mad pictures of the characters from the Matrix made out of tiny, sparkly black and silver squares hanging all over the place. At the end of the room is a huge grand piano and someone is playing it. They're playing beautiful music and as I listen to it I feel all the tension of the last 24 hours fall away. My shoulders feel lighter, my head comes up and the crippling hangover, the drive to the airport, nearly missing the flight, not bringing any spare clothes, no hotel.......blah, blah, blah. They all float away. I sit for what seems like two hours, eating my meal as slowly as possible. I feel like a queen, I've never eaten a meal to piano music before. (What a fucking chav. I also used to think eating a Vienetta was a sign of class when I was about 12 or so). Anyway, so the beautiful meal comes to an end. The bill? Enough to pay for a plastic hotel room but what I got instead was better. Better than I'd have got from a snotty receptionist, tiny bottles of shampoo and wipe clean upholstery. I feel reborn.
I take the half bottle of wine with me as I leave the table and walk down the road. No idea where I'm going, I walk round Milan for a while and watch the nightlife. Black, white and beige. Monochrome and stylish is how people live round here. I sit down on some stone steps, scooted up against a pillar. People can see me if they look but I'm out of eyeline so they don't often turn their heads. My face is hidden under my collar anyway so I don't feel too exposed. I sit for what feels like hours smoking rollies and drinking wine. Then, when I feel tired I lean over and hook the PVC cover off the stairlift next to me. It won't offer too much protection from December weather but it will at least be some kind of windbreak. I get sleep. Of sorts. Once or twice footsteps come close enough to make me worried but the empty bottle is close enough for me to smash if I need to go psycho on their asses.
Sleep, wake, sleep, wake, sleep, wake. Finally it seems light enough for me to get up. Empty streets and I walk in circles for a while until I find where I am on the map. Next step? Find an internet cafe and find a hostel.
Memory ends.
Staff night out the night before. The usual boring meal, tinkle talk and compliments on the food. The boss gets over excited and flushed. Not her fault, she's got a kid and doesn't get out much. Then we walk down the street, strain off the parents and oldies and it's on to the main event - double rum and cokes and bullshit at the bar. Riff with the leather dreadlocks guy and flirt with the stripy hoodie. Would do either, might do both, will probably end up with neither. The bouncers don't like my mates face so we walk head first into the sea blasts and go to the castle. Drink, drink, drink, drink, drink more and I end up at a house in town at 7 am with the dreadlock guy holding my hand under the table while I watch the uptight office girl smoking weed through a potato pipe.
Wake up at midday. BAMM. My fucking head is split in two. Roll off the bed and roll into the clothes from the nights before. I can hardly see as I stagger round the house, shouting cunt at the top of my voice is the only thing that makes me feel better. Films, cameras, passport and tickets; in a bag with some pants and a hat for luck. Bristol airport. Fuck, I'm so late. I should have left at 11. Plane at 4. Fuck, fuck fuck. Drive like a mentalist down the motorway, screech into the long stay car park, all the stuff falls out of my bag. I'm standing shaking as the security guard pats me down. If she touches my stomach I'm gonna puke on her. Get to the departure gate. 5 minutes to go. Sleep on the plane, 3 seats for myself, 2 hours later and I'm in Milan.
I've gone through tired and into wired. Walking isn't an effort any more but I still don't know where I'm going. Not booking anything seemed like such a good idea when I was at home but now it's 22.30 in a big city and I've got nowhere to go. Hotel? First one I see? Fake wood reception and plastic plants? Starched white impersonal sheets and a pastel picture on the wall. Not worth my money. Don't know where you are until you open the curtains in the morning. Fucking rip offs. I ain't paying for a plastic experience. So where am I going to go then? Eat. I need food too. The only food place I've seen so far was the McDonalds by the station entrance. Fuck that too.
I'm walking towards a restaurant, it has a long piece of red carpet leading to the door - they do that in Milan - and a little lit up menu on the wall. Inside the door is a pyramid of fruit, dripping with grapes and a multi-colour feast of fish on ice. Damm, too much money. I walk away. Then stop. Then come back. Fucking insecure, indecisive self.
Walk in, I hold up a single finger and I'm ushered to my seat. I don't want to be English so I change into a mute. Point to the menus, point to the bread. Smile, make lots of eye contact. Point to the wine list. My stomach is violently rejecting the thought of more booze but I force down the start of a bottle of merlot. And sit. And look around. And realise that I'm in a beautiful, calming place. The room is white with a high ceiling. There are mad pictures of the characters from the Matrix made out of tiny, sparkly black and silver squares hanging all over the place. At the end of the room is a huge grand piano and someone is playing it. They're playing beautiful music and as I listen to it I feel all the tension of the last 24 hours fall away. My shoulders feel lighter, my head comes up and the crippling hangover, the drive to the airport, nearly missing the flight, not bringing any spare clothes, no hotel.......blah, blah, blah. They all float away. I sit for what seems like two hours, eating my meal as slowly as possible. I feel like a queen, I've never eaten a meal to piano music before. (What a fucking chav. I also used to think eating a Vienetta was a sign of class when I was about 12 or so). Anyway, so the beautiful meal comes to an end. The bill? Enough to pay for a plastic hotel room but what I got instead was better. Better than I'd have got from a snotty receptionist, tiny bottles of shampoo and wipe clean upholstery. I feel reborn.
I take the half bottle of wine with me as I leave the table and walk down the road. No idea where I'm going, I walk round Milan for a while and watch the nightlife. Black, white and beige. Monochrome and stylish is how people live round here. I sit down on some stone steps, scooted up against a pillar. People can see me if they look but I'm out of eyeline so they don't often turn their heads. My face is hidden under my collar anyway so I don't feel too exposed. I sit for what feels like hours smoking rollies and drinking wine. Then, when I feel tired I lean over and hook the PVC cover off the stairlift next to me. It won't offer too much protection from December weather but it will at least be some kind of windbreak. I get sleep. Of sorts. Once or twice footsteps come close enough to make me worried but the empty bottle is close enough for me to smash if I need to go psycho on their asses.
Sleep, wake, sleep, wake, sleep, wake. Finally it seems light enough for me to get up. Empty streets and I walk in circles for a while until I find where I am on the map. Next step? Find an internet cafe and find a hostel.
Memory ends.
ten thousand meanings
In my cupboard in the kitchen sits a small pot. I am idly filling it with mustard seeds. There are some potatoes in the corner of the cupboard that have started to sprout pale shoots in the warm dry darkness.
It's a Wednesday afternoon and I am wearing my hair in a new style. It makes me nervous and I keep adjusting the band, pulling it straight, pushing it off my forehead - trying to keep it as good as it looked for that second of perfect pose in the mirror 3 hours earlier.
A boy comes into the thin, dimly lit room. He says hello to me but that's it. That's ok, I know he's shy. He sits down at the piano and starts to play. His fingers are long and thin and they are producing beautiful music. I am entranced. I slow my movements as I listen and half turn towards him. I've seen him a few times in the house and I kinda like him. Once I was reading a book on the stairs when he came out of the shower. He smiled really wide when he saw me. Once I saw him on the street and I winked at him cos I was in a good mood and feeling a bit cheeky - sometimes winking is a bit easier than saying hello anyway. Years of accquaintance can be distilled into a little head nod. This guy rents me the internet time that I'm typing this on - but we've never had a conversation because I know he's shy.
So I'm trying to think of what I can say about his piano playing, wondering what I'm going to say when he finishes, when suddenly he gets up and walks out of the room. That's it, he's gone; mid tune. Interaction over. How strange. I imagine a hundred different ways to interpret that scene. What if he was expressing his desire to talk to me by playing the piano. Maybe this is the start of a grand and beautiful love story, played out in the top and bottom rooms of a shabby shared house by the sea. How will we start talking? Where would we be when we first kissed? He's got nice eyes. Why did he leave so abruptly like that? Is there something he wants to say to me or is it just that I fancy him a bit? I think I fancy him a bit.
It's a Wednesday afternoon and I am wearing my hair in a new style. It makes me nervous and I keep adjusting the band, pulling it straight, pushing it off my forehead - trying to keep it as good as it looked for that second of perfect pose in the mirror 3 hours earlier.
A boy comes into the thin, dimly lit room. He says hello to me but that's it. That's ok, I know he's shy. He sits down at the piano and starts to play. His fingers are long and thin and they are producing beautiful music. I am entranced. I slow my movements as I listen and half turn towards him. I've seen him a few times in the house and I kinda like him. Once I was reading a book on the stairs when he came out of the shower. He smiled really wide when he saw me. Once I saw him on the street and I winked at him cos I was in a good mood and feeling a bit cheeky - sometimes winking is a bit easier than saying hello anyway. Years of accquaintance can be distilled into a little head nod. This guy rents me the internet time that I'm typing this on - but we've never had a conversation because I know he's shy.
So I'm trying to think of what I can say about his piano playing, wondering what I'm going to say when he finishes, when suddenly he gets up and walks out of the room. That's it, he's gone; mid tune. Interaction over. How strange. I imagine a hundred different ways to interpret that scene. What if he was expressing his desire to talk to me by playing the piano. Maybe this is the start of a grand and beautiful love story, played out in the top and bottom rooms of a shabby shared house by the sea. How will we start talking? Where would we be when we first kissed? He's got nice eyes. Why did he leave so abruptly like that? Is there something he wants to say to me or is it just that I fancy him a bit? I think I fancy him a bit.
Thursday, 3 January 2008
romance in red spray paint
So the fair's on and I'm invited. I come with my mates and he comes with his. Someone is fool enough to offer round a full pack of L+B. Gone. Hyena laughs and monkey punches. Street strutting and shoulder rolling but we walk a bit slow and everyone melts away. It's weird for a bit but a can of Stella makes the talking come easier. Lights blur, colours whirl and the waltzers make the world spin. I remember the poppers I nicked out of my sisters bedroom. Yes! Everything turns into a smear of lights and noise, all except the feel of his leg pressing against mine. The ground comes towards me and we're stumbling off; laughing away. Crouch down, skin up and now we're too fucked to hook ducks so he nicks me a fluffy tiger instead. Leg it round a corner pissing ourselves and all of a sudden there it is. Our first kiss. My heart goes skipping, jumping, banging and clattering so fast that i have to leg it again to keep up. Run. Cold lips, sharing chips, grease on my fingers and hot vinegar breath. We sit behind the car park and tell each other about our dads. Wind blows through me and hits the concrete. We're kissing again. My head spins and I am lost. Mouth, lips, tongue, fingers fumble, clothes rustle, belts clink. I can only feel myself in the places where we are touching. His knee is hard between my legs and I am pressed up against the wall. It hurts a bit but it's kind of nice. Hours pass but really it's only minutes. Damm, I'm going to miss my lift. It's really hard to stop touching him. We get to the car. One more second before I get into the back seat bubble of giggles, candy floss and fags. I love you. Yeah I love you too. See you tomorrow.
Saturday, 3 November 2007
the man at midnight
Nightime in a square in Barcelona. The beautiful nightlife covered me like thick perfume. People walking, talking everywhere, in every direction, boys playing football in the centre, bouncing the ball off the big block of scuplture. Tramps sat around the skirts of the crowds, drinking the sweet cider with a sour taste that only hits you when you swallow - that's when you remember it's 8%. A tree in the corner slowly shed its yellow blossom, it only had a short time to cover the ground before the 2am street washers came round. A filled pitta bread was served to me on a red plastic tray.
My gaze moved left and I realised there was a man at the next table over to me. He was obviously one of the many street performers that line Las Ramblas during the day - each perfect mime enticing you to mimic their stillness by watching them for minutes on end. He was wearing a shabby black suit, had a strong Spanish tache and was smoking, slowly and elegantly.
How could I tell he was a street performer? Every part of skin that I could see was covered in silver bodypaint, it sank into his every wrinkle. The moonlight highlighted the plume of cigarette smoke rising above his head and made his silver skin glow.
A silver man in a square in Barcelona at midnight, smoking a cigarette in an oasis of silence.
My gaze moved left and I realised there was a man at the next table over to me. He was obviously one of the many street performers that line Las Ramblas during the day - each perfect mime enticing you to mimic their stillness by watching them for minutes on end. He was wearing a shabby black suit, had a strong Spanish tache and was smoking, slowly and elegantly.
How could I tell he was a street performer? Every part of skin that I could see was covered in silver bodypaint, it sank into his every wrinkle. The moonlight highlighted the plume of cigarette smoke rising above his head and made his silver skin glow.
A silver man in a square in Barcelona at midnight, smoking a cigarette in an oasis of silence.
Wednesday, 24 October 2007
Chip fat and hope
I met my new potential landlord in the lounge of his luxury hotel and we drove over to see the property in his brand new BMW. A laptop sized screen on the dashboard invited me to control the in-car climate. The new potential landlord had stains down the front of his white t-shirt, "he'd been working in the kitchens today" he said. The smell of over fried food in old, over used oil filled the car.
He let himself into the house by reaching through the hole in the front door, "the glass got broken yesterday" he said. I waited in the hallway as he searched through a hundred keys to open up my potential new room; I could see through a doorway into a dingy lounge. A fat man with a beard sat at a wooden table in the centre of the room, no television or newspaper in front of him. "Hello" I said. He didn't answer, just stared into space, his hand was on the table and he was rubbing his thumb and fingers against each other.
"Here we go" said the potential new landlord and he opened the door. The room was small and dingy. The window faced onto a stained grey wall so there was no need for the filthy yellow net curtains to be there. The woodchip wallpaper was peeling and the furniture looked like it had been rescued from a skip. "This isn't what I'm looking for" I said, and left.
I walked down the road, wondering what the fuck I was going to do. A sign gleamed out of a steamy window in front of me - Acommodation. A dented brass doorknob opened the door to the glass porch; peeling blue paint and full of plants and large pieces of tree tied to the walls. No answer from the doorbell so I pressed up against the glass panel in the front door and looked into the gloom. I could see an old painting at the back of the hall, a portrait in oils of a pale woman, more plants and a box of records shoved under a wooden bureau. I felt that if I walked into the house there would probably be a clock ticking somewhere in the background and all the rooms would be filled with books I've never read. This is a place I could be comfortable.
He let himself into the house by reaching through the hole in the front door, "the glass got broken yesterday" he said. I waited in the hallway as he searched through a hundred keys to open up my potential new room; I could see through a doorway into a dingy lounge. A fat man with a beard sat at a wooden table in the centre of the room, no television or newspaper in front of him. "Hello" I said. He didn't answer, just stared into space, his hand was on the table and he was rubbing his thumb and fingers against each other.
"Here we go" said the potential new landlord and he opened the door. The room was small and dingy. The window faced onto a stained grey wall so there was no need for the filthy yellow net curtains to be there. The woodchip wallpaper was peeling and the furniture looked like it had been rescued from a skip. "This isn't what I'm looking for" I said, and left.
I walked down the road, wondering what the fuck I was going to do. A sign gleamed out of a steamy window in front of me - Acommodation. A dented brass doorknob opened the door to the glass porch; peeling blue paint and full of plants and large pieces of tree tied to the walls. No answer from the doorbell so I pressed up against the glass panel in the front door and looked into the gloom. I could see an old painting at the back of the hall, a portrait in oils of a pale woman, more plants and a box of records shoved under a wooden bureau. I felt that if I walked into the house there would probably be a clock ticking somewhere in the background and all the rooms would be filled with books I've never read. This is a place I could be comfortable.
Tuesday, 23 October 2007
once upon a time in madrid
I was a tourist, walking the streets in a daze. I couldn't really tell you what was in front of my eyes, everything blurred into my peripheral vision. Narrow streets, little shops that sold everything you would need for your brand new imaginary life, windows opening into crowded, low ceilinged bars. Life swirled around me, I didn't need to look at it, I just absorbed it.
As I waited for some traffic lights to change a noise which had been tugging at my senses swung into the front of my brain. A grating, gritty, dragging noise. I looked down to my right and saw a girl. About 13, she had big, docile eyes like a cow; they looked around but no trace of her thoughts ran across her face. She was wearing a pink velour tracksuit. The lights changed and she set off across the street, beside her on the pavement she pulled a small, red umbrella. The tip of the childsize umbrella grated on the concrete, creating a constant high pitched scraping which slowly retreated into the distance.
I stood for a minute, trying to focus on the girl. I wonder who she was, what she was doing and where she was going. Then, shaking my head, I crossed the street.
I walked across a huge square, trees around the side and skyscrapers walling us in. It was dark down on the ground but when I looked up there was bright sunlight shining onto the yellow stone of the buildings. I sat for a while and watched the people with things to do. After about 20 minutes I heard the noise again. A slow scraping coming towards me. There was the girl, her vacant eyes looking at nothing. And now she had two umbrellas, the small red one and a bigger black umbrella with a curled wooden handle. She carried one in each hand, letting the tips trail along the ground behind her, a constant background of white noise accompanying her journey through the centre of Madrid.
As I waited for some traffic lights to change a noise which had been tugging at my senses swung into the front of my brain. A grating, gritty, dragging noise. I looked down to my right and saw a girl. About 13, she had big, docile eyes like a cow; they looked around but no trace of her thoughts ran across her face. She was wearing a pink velour tracksuit. The lights changed and she set off across the street, beside her on the pavement she pulled a small, red umbrella. The tip of the childsize umbrella grated on the concrete, creating a constant high pitched scraping which slowly retreated into the distance.
I stood for a minute, trying to focus on the girl. I wonder who she was, what she was doing and where she was going. Then, shaking my head, I crossed the street.
I walked across a huge square, trees around the side and skyscrapers walling us in. It was dark down on the ground but when I looked up there was bright sunlight shining onto the yellow stone of the buildings. I sat for a while and watched the people with things to do. After about 20 minutes I heard the noise again. A slow scraping coming towards me. There was the girl, her vacant eyes looking at nothing. And now she had two umbrellas, the small red one and a bigger black umbrella with a curled wooden handle. She carried one in each hand, letting the tips trail along the ground behind her, a constant background of white noise accompanying her journey through the centre of Madrid.
Tuesday, 16 October 2007
The giant rollerskates
I walked across a bridge and found myself in a meadow. The sky was clear and deep blue, the grass was thick, dark green and came up to my knees. There was no sun in the sky, just the colour blue, but everywhere was light and warm and still. No birds, no trees, no animals; everything else disappeared and all there was in the world was grass and sky. And rollerboots. Giant rollerboots. Scattered, as far as I could see.
They were white with red lace and red wheels. Some were on their sides and some were upright. They were all about 15 foot high and lay about 100 metres apart. I walked slowly through the meadow, every step produced a different angle.
Blue sky, green grass, white boots, red laces. It was incredibly beautiful.
They were white with red lace and red wheels. Some were on their sides and some were upright. They were all about 15 foot high and lay about 100 metres apart. I walked slowly through the meadow, every step produced a different angle.
Blue sky, green grass, white boots, red laces. It was incredibly beautiful.
Monday, 15 October 2007
starting somewhere
sometimes I just want to run. to feel strong legs pushing me up off the pavement with every stride. my brain disconnects from my body, even if I wanted to stop I couldn't, my body has become a machine, functioning independently of me. I am being carried by myself.
And I want to go forever, nevermind hills, cars, roads, houses; I will run over them - pushing off the pavement with a strong lead foot, the next foot lands on the car bonnet, my knee bends to absorb the shock but my thigh muscles push me up and onto the roof then I run off the back, land moving and keep going.
I want to do the same with words, keep a flow of words going to carry my thoughts up, around street corners and over hills. Like the winds, always going somewhere. I hope my fingers can keep up.
And I want to go forever, nevermind hills, cars, roads, houses; I will run over them - pushing off the pavement with a strong lead foot, the next foot lands on the car bonnet, my knee bends to absorb the shock but my thigh muscles push me up and onto the roof then I run off the back, land moving and keep going.
I want to do the same with words, keep a flow of words going to carry my thoughts up, around street corners and over hills. Like the winds, always going somewhere. I hope my fingers can keep up.
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