Over tWo hours. A bus journey. A stone's throw. A slug.
Feet like peanut brittle. With standing room only, I sat. Grateful. In peace. No book. No hurry. Awkwardly at ease. Dozing. Thinking. Rethinking. Sinking. Into the slowness. Listening.
Icy out. Glass hit with a snowball. Inches from my face. Shielded. Sleepy eyes in circles. Crinkles of shopping bags. So much all around. So much to document...
So much all around.
Instead, I enjoyed the peace. I still do. Nothing to say about it. Joyously forced to slow down.
I was probably the only one happy about it.
Laughing inside. Flurries and madness.
Monday 21 December 2009
aS a dRAft
Sunday. Dec 20. UptOP, big rEd. Again.
_______
Just a quick one. Too cold to retrieve book. Preoccupied with the chatter upstairs... I typed in my phone. Documentation. Saved as a draft.
_______
Frozen in between the sheaths. The planks. Chinese stars. Barriers. Blue and true. Sky. Endless. We see the same. Hilly view of spikes. Tops and trains. Where I am. Where I want. In the middle of green bumps. Sunshine swirl.
Riverside.
A morning dream.
Blackbird perched. Flies away. Through a hoop... I wonder if it has the same meaning as me jumping.
_______
Just a quick one. Too cold to retrieve book. Preoccupied with the chatter upstairs... I typed in my phone. Documentation. Saved as a draft.
_______
Frozen in between the sheaths. The planks. Chinese stars. Barriers. Blue and true. Sky. Endless. We see the same. Hilly view of spikes. Tops and trains. Where I am. Where I want. In the middle of green bumps. Sunshine swirl.
Riverside.
A morning dream.
Blackbird perched. Flies away. Through a hoop... I wonder if it has the same meaning as me jumping.
Saturday 19 December 2009
SaTurDay TuRn bAck (6)
It's the 6th Saturday. Another Saturday turn back: :
-----------------------
This day: Friday June 12, 2009
Three short entries
and a vase with something mORe
------------------------
______________________________________________________________________
pulped to the stomach. restless caress muted by the wheels of a change. evolving. morphing from my cocoon. almost prepared. to fly. mysterious outcome. dusted wings.
______________________________________________________________________
clean and greasy from filth of depths. unreachable clench. sponged drenched and smooth palmed. charm. mouth wide open and eyes sewn shut. grains in circles.. pulsation head to toe. bowl of dirt. hurt and free. they float even when engulfed. saturation of bliss. pores of spring.
______________________________________________________________________
hot. white. small. cardboard. they chat not in mother tongue. of importance. of marriage. trouble in laws. whole life ahead. hyper Victoria house. cheetah print flats and stiletto hooks-boots-mom knocks. taste buds burned. it's a war. i'm going to wait it out.
______________________________________________________________________
______________________________________________________________________
-----------------------
This day: Friday June 12, 2009
Three short entries
and a vase with something mORe
------------------------
______________________________________________________________________
pulped to the stomach. restless caress muted by the wheels of a change. evolving. morphing from my cocoon. almost prepared. to fly. mysterious outcome. dusted wings.
______________________________________________________________________
clean and greasy from filth of depths. unreachable clench. sponged drenched and smooth palmed. charm. mouth wide open and eyes sewn shut. grains in circles.. pulsation head to toe. bowl of dirt. hurt and free. they float even when engulfed. saturation of bliss. pores of spring.
______________________________________________________________________
hot. white. small. cardboard. they chat not in mother tongue. of importance. of marriage. trouble in laws. whole life ahead. hyper Victoria house. cheetah print flats and stiletto hooks-boots-mom knocks. taste buds burned. it's a war. i'm going to wait it out.
______________________________________________________________________
______________________________________________________________________
Friday 18 December 2009
tHUrsDAy (aLmost skip) dELaYEd
Thought to be forgotten. Forgotten. Forgotten. Stand still. Stand still. It's a lOng time to be. Stand-stood, still.
We are sO lucky. Kim needs tequila. What else? Work it out. All (of) the time. San Fran native. But. butt. Chilled out. Deep blue. Patched hat.
Hearts and spades. Hanging. Jaded. More-Illustrious. Illustrations. Washed away. Puddled. Muddled. Faded-again. And again. Ripped on an egg head with a bulge. Shy mouse show. The last carriage. The last care. Acre. passing. Open. Door. Horns. He has a t-shirt in his pocket. Ridges of records... Counted and recounted-coins.
A patch of gray. Second. On the side and upper. Lip. Hip. Dip. Kings Cross here. Job done. Rodents squeak.. it echoes. Shh...
I still can't remember. I spy. Six buds planted. A corner prance. Pink plaid and an exposed zip. Red balloon hat-in-hand. Frayed. Delayed. Red-nosed. No, I am nOt the infamous deer. Dear. Rein. Rain. It has been for days..
I say something upon stop. Stop and spot. Red and bottoms. Hint for a click. No, three. A desire for history. Personal habitat. Neck crunch. Torn. She says it's not thAt easy.
She's right.. and there's so much more. SO much mOre UNRECORDED within this blur.
We are sO lucky. Kim needs tequila. What else? Work it out. All (of) the time. San Fran native. But. butt. Chilled out. Deep blue. Patched hat.
Hearts and spades. Hanging. Jaded. More-Illustrious. Illustrations. Washed away. Puddled. Muddled. Faded-again. And again. Ripped on an egg head with a bulge. Shy mouse show. The last carriage. The last care. Acre. passing. Open. Door. Horns. He has a t-shirt in his pocket. Ridges of records... Counted and recounted-coins.
A patch of gray. Second. On the side and upper. Lip. Hip. Dip. Kings Cross here. Job done. Rodents squeak.. it echoes. Shh...
I still can't remember. I spy. Six buds planted. A corner prance. Pink plaid and an exposed zip. Red balloon hat-in-hand. Frayed. Delayed. Red-nosed. No, I am nOt the infamous deer. Dear. Rein. Rain. It has been for days..
I say something upon stop. Stop and spot. Red and bottoms. Hint for a click. No, three. A desire for history. Personal habitat. Neck crunch. Torn. She says it's not thAt easy.
She's right.. and there's so much more. SO much mOre UNRECORDED within this blur.
Tuesday 15 December 2009
SeVen miNutes SpEnt
Everything is brighter. Shining under these same tubes, like moonlight on that crystal liquid ice. Lake of loveliness. I am a careless love with a coffee song. Same stone-washed across and I scream inside. I wonder. If he knows it's me... It doesn't matter. We are both purple people.
Last minute scribble.. hands full, I travel and daydream of a jazz club. Long cig. Red lips. Heart black. Silk. Martini in a cosmo glass. An old fashioned movie. Handsome star. Black and white. Fuzzy. Scratchy sound. Hip twist...
and I shimmy out. Less abhorrence toward today.
On the return. Seven minute wait. red teeth. A hill unclimbed until this eve. Venturing my way through the Gant cave, I ask him the way. He tells me: trains, not working. Frown. Asks where I need to go. Smirks. I detest the break. Tell. He tries to direct. Points. I say the army ants may know the way forward. Confess my trust in him. Thanks. Go.Walk.Turn. Ask.
Disbelief.
Trains nOt with problems. A touch of anger. A giggle. Mostly gratitude of his lie. Fib. Trick. Emotional range altered. I sit. I see.
"A throne is only a bench covered in velvet"...Bonaparte. I think. I got a text from Dominos today. Modern day heiress.
Velvet doesn't stand a chance.
Seven minutes spent.
I have a smile to end as I did to start.
Still spreading, sleepily...and a long blue velvet sits with a rasta color painted brow.
Impressive.
Last minute scribble.. hands full, I travel and daydream of a jazz club. Long cig. Red lips. Heart black. Silk. Martini in a cosmo glass. An old fashioned movie. Handsome star. Black and white. Fuzzy. Scratchy sound. Hip twist...
and I shimmy out. Less abhorrence toward today.
On the return. Seven minute wait. red teeth. A hill unclimbed until this eve. Venturing my way through the Gant cave, I ask him the way. He tells me: trains, not working. Frown. Asks where I need to go. Smirks. I detest the break. Tell. He tries to direct. Points. I say the army ants may know the way forward. Confess my trust in him. Thanks. Go.Walk.Turn. Ask.
Disbelief.
Trains nOt with problems. A touch of anger. A giggle. Mostly gratitude of his lie. Fib. Trick. Emotional range altered. I sit. I see.
"A throne is only a bench covered in velvet"...Bonaparte. I think. I got a text from Dominos today. Modern day heiress.
Velvet doesn't stand a chance.
Seven minutes spent.
I have a smile to end as I did to start.
Still spreading, sleepily...and a long blue velvet sits with a rasta color painted brow.
Impressive.
Monday 14 December 2009
I hOPpEd
Like graciously jumping from lilypad to lilypad. Without a sink. Blink. I have hopped.
Bow and arrow. Again. Narrow gaps in between the ridges of it all. Ice cold metal. Fused into one. Dusk and dawn. Reflections and distance of a rising promise.
Earlier than usual and calm. Quiet.
Check the tick. No, not earlier. Simply darker.
Readers all around. 12 readers and nobody else. Lie. One writer. Most papers. A few books. Nearest- book. The kind with the silky thin pages. Rice paperish. With a tear, disintegration. They have a special sound, a smooth feel. Tiny writings. Not English. Separated by names and numbers. Edges are red.. like me today. Ribbon bookmark and finger spots for turning. For forgiveness. A tale of sorts. Longevity of belief. A tall tale? Not today's discussion.
He hasn't looked up once. Nor turned the page. Mesmerized. He looks with concentration. Chews with fury. Fuzzy like the politically incorrect childhood image of an Eskimo. Hair like a gray wire scrubber. Feet curled like a cat on carpet beneath his footies.
Glancing up: Silos. Stacks of smoke. Toothless blocks of flats. My favorite branches. Chimneys. Rooftops stretching all the way down. All the way over. All the way down.
He still reads..
I close my eyes and continue to hop. With joy.
Bow and arrow. Again. Narrow gaps in between the ridges of it all. Ice cold metal. Fused into one. Dusk and dawn. Reflections and distance of a rising promise.
Earlier than usual and calm. Quiet.
Check the tick. No, not earlier. Simply darker.
Readers all around. 12 readers and nobody else. Lie. One writer. Most papers. A few books. Nearest- book. The kind with the silky thin pages. Rice paperish. With a tear, disintegration. They have a special sound, a smooth feel. Tiny writings. Not English. Separated by names and numbers. Edges are red.. like me today. Ribbon bookmark and finger spots for turning. For forgiveness. A tale of sorts. Longevity of belief. A tall tale? Not today's discussion.
He hasn't looked up once. Nor turned the page. Mesmerized. He looks with concentration. Chews with fury. Fuzzy like the politically incorrect childhood image of an Eskimo. Hair like a gray wire scrubber. Feet curled like a cat on carpet beneath his footies.
Glancing up: Silos. Stacks of smoke. Toothless blocks of flats. My favorite branches. Chimneys. Rooftops stretching all the way down. All the way over. All the way down.
He still reads..
I close my eyes and continue to hop. With joy.
Sunday 13 December 2009
hUddLe brOkeN
The penetration of my maliced marrow is dedicatedly sharp. Sharp. Sold out by the flux of Friday's spread on toast, an earlier everyday. Spread t h i n.
Exiting, my eyes do feel big. Like he said. As a frog's. Bulged. Protruding and unescapably chilled by the winter air. I think of goggles.
With a drink of tea, my teeth crack like frozen cubes interrupted. Faintly, the sound is heard. The same Sunday journey. Hazelwood Road. A bus. Steamboxed windows. Clam baked once upon a time. Dare not to touch. Slightly more crisp than a watercolor painting-colors are louder this way. Up close-droplets from a swoop of a dirty rag pretending to clean a table.
Ahh.. enjoyment. Ease. They exited. Loud talkers, a language I know not. The yelling. Talking over..Upstairs. I could hear downstairs too. Babies cry. Contentful Cockneys. Almost bilingual.. Ahh.. enjoyment. Nearly silent. Minus the rattle of this dinosaur.
I share upper deck in close proximity. Three of us in front. Practically huddled. Two olders. Men. One with ring. One without. With ring, with cane. A stick. Both hats. One baseball. One not. One glasses. One without. One jeans. Unbaseball- pinstriped instead. No glasses.. pretty patterns. Delightfully clashed. Bull frog eyes like me. His like water, mine like dirt. Fishing hat instead. Long stringy white. Shoes like chestnuts..Hands relaxedly clasped. I contemplate his being. The stories of his wrinkles. His jumper. His lack of ring...
I glance up to a fluorescent sign. SLOW DOWN.
I wish I could.
Ahhh....run run. Down. Down. I almost missed my stop.
Huddle broken.
Exiting, my eyes do feel big. Like he said. As a frog's. Bulged. Protruding and unescapably chilled by the winter air. I think of goggles.
With a drink of tea, my teeth crack like frozen cubes interrupted. Faintly, the sound is heard. The same Sunday journey. Hazelwood Road. A bus. Steamboxed windows. Clam baked once upon a time. Dare not to touch. Slightly more crisp than a watercolor painting-colors are louder this way. Up close-droplets from a swoop of a dirty rag pretending to clean a table.
Ahh.. enjoyment. Ease. They exited. Loud talkers, a language I know not. The yelling. Talking over..Upstairs. I could hear downstairs too. Babies cry. Contentful Cockneys. Almost bilingual.. Ahh.. enjoyment. Nearly silent. Minus the rattle of this dinosaur.
I share upper deck in close proximity. Three of us in front. Practically huddled. Two olders. Men. One with ring. One without. With ring, with cane. A stick. Both hats. One baseball. One not. One glasses. One without. One jeans. Unbaseball- pinstriped instead. No glasses.. pretty patterns. Delightfully clashed. Bull frog eyes like me. His like water, mine like dirt. Fishing hat instead. Long stringy white. Shoes like chestnuts..Hands relaxedly clasped. I contemplate his being. The stories of his wrinkles. His jumper. His lack of ring...
I glance up to a fluorescent sign. SLOW DOWN.
I wish I could.
Ahhh....run run. Down. Down. I almost missed my stop.
Huddle broken.
Saturday 12 December 2009
SaTurDay TuRn bAck (5)
----------------------
This day: May 27, 2009
----------------------
Waiting for class.
I listened-and they spoke. I saw & I wrote...
Turn-turn-turn. Humor it.
Where are you? I'm waiting for you to do something. It comes out of the wishy washy, and suddenly it becomes much more.
It seems like you are 60 miles away.
Revolution and relationships.
She doesn't love you anymore and that's why she's going.
It's 5:45. Wednesday. Women with whites and grays. Bite and bite and bite into that apple. Like last time, last moment.
Drop like a coin and call me. Crinkle and full moon. Jump through glass and struggled. Strangled, Stranded in water. Cats like sharks and velcro underneaths-
I ignore his stumble and huffs.
Black fishnets and printed press. Impress. Depress.. stress. Signals. Dressed to impress..-in black. Black. Passion and plumb-
It doesn't matter what you've done-
See, this is why I have to go. Red pencils galore. Purple pods and stripes-they literally have to pay, I think that's what they should do.
It's just a script- Encrypt. Kryptonite.
I think they fuck.
This day: May 27, 2009
----------------------
Waiting for class.
I listened-and they spoke. I saw & I wrote...
Turn-turn-turn. Humor it.
Where are you? I'm waiting for you to do something. It comes out of the wishy washy, and suddenly it becomes much more.
It seems like you are 60 miles away.
Revolution and relationships.
She doesn't love you anymore and that's why she's going.
It's 5:45. Wednesday. Women with whites and grays. Bite and bite and bite into that apple. Like last time, last moment.
Drop like a coin and call me. Crinkle and full moon. Jump through glass and struggled. Strangled, Stranded in water. Cats like sharks and velcro underneaths-
I ignore his stumble and huffs.
Black fishnets and printed press. Impress. Depress.. stress. Signals. Dressed to impress..-in black. Black. Passion and plumb-
It doesn't matter what you've done-
See, this is why I have to go. Red pencils galore. Purple pods and stripes-they literally have to pay, I think that's what they should do.
It's just a script- Encrypt. Kryptonite.
I think they fuck.
FriDAy fOg. HooPLA.
The hoopla over a blank space has never been so welcoming. Stopped traffic. On it's side. Thought no more. Signal lost, two empties hidden. Found. Misplaced word. Memory. Spray painted.
Friday.Fog. Not enough. So dense, like that blockage between my ears. The haze transforming my frame. Masking the usual. Hovering above and within. Miniscule movements..Mystic. Magic. Music. My mind is blank, the space is blocked.
So much fog.
So m U c h fog.
Friday.Fog. Not enough. So dense, like that blockage between my ears. The haze transforming my frame. Masking the usual. Hovering above and within. Miniscule movements..Mystic. Magic. Music. My mind is blank, the space is blocked.
So much fog.
So m U c h fog.
Thursday 10 December 2009
clOseneSS creep
Creeping closer than my slowest run and rant-
First base ride. Sitting. Hypersensitive. I stare at him. On the bench. Picture perfect. Waiting. Centered. White buds. Poised. Luggage. Case, briefly. Clasped. Plastic frames. Immersed, I stare.
Escaping the chambers of bodily confinement.. I float through the rolling submarine like a thin wire taut and hollow to the other side.. Floor. Chair. Fuzz. Metal. Glass. Air. Space. Platform. Walk on nothing. A swoop, a dive.. head first with arms stretched. Shark fin but floppy. I fall in.
Kindly I jump into his eyes.. the spot in between them. It only lasts a few seconds. Just to explore and taste. Tiny, I travel as a speck through his.
Out I step with earthly force. Eyes wide. Multicolored translucence. I lost my balance. He doesn't know. Glowing. The escape of within. The dovetail into what it may be inside another.
Eyes fluid. We all breathe. Silhouettes of sleep. The dark of the morning. Her. Him. We share something.
First base ride. Sitting. Hypersensitive. I stare at him. On the bench. Picture perfect. Waiting. Centered. White buds. Poised. Luggage. Case, briefly. Clasped. Plastic frames. Immersed, I stare.
Escaping the chambers of bodily confinement.. I float through the rolling submarine like a thin wire taut and hollow to the other side.. Floor. Chair. Fuzz. Metal. Glass. Air. Space. Platform. Walk on nothing. A swoop, a dive.. head first with arms stretched. Shark fin but floppy. I fall in.
Kindly I jump into his eyes.. the spot in between them. It only lasts a few seconds. Just to explore and taste. Tiny, I travel as a speck through his.
Out I step with earthly force. Eyes wide. Multicolored translucence. I lost my balance. He doesn't know. Glowing. The escape of within. The dovetail into what it may be inside another.
Eyes fluid. We all breathe. Silhouettes of sleep. The dark of the morning. Her. Him. We share something.
Tuesday 8 December 2009
BiRd cHirP
Heard a bird chirp in the heavy heart of this deep purple. The navy web of whys and tangled tyrants. A glass chest. Apoxy tear. Preserved.
I heard a bird chirp this morning. I imagined what it could have been telling me. What would it say to me under this shallow roof? If it could fall, I mean fly into this deep canyon I trekked down while others dreamt-what could it offer? What could I offer it?
Deep down I am still free-chainless. Unlike some. Boundless by all else but my spiritless wings. My shoulders are steel.. Red Rover, send me right over.
Wait for the biggins.Again.For green... 14 minutes wasted. Accumulation of so much.. Like this purposely decorated painted speckled floor.. So many marks.. Hiding so much. Noticeably inward.
I am cornered. In my spot.I need my solitude this morning. Where is that bird?
I need an hour in a coffee shop with my pen... maybe some brandy.
I wish I could reach him to give him a hug. I hope he knows.
I think.
I heard a bird chirp this morning...
and I hope he did too.
I heard a bird chirp this morning. I imagined what it could have been telling me. What would it say to me under this shallow roof? If it could fall, I mean fly into this deep canyon I trekked down while others dreamt-what could it offer? What could I offer it?
Deep down I am still free-chainless. Unlike some. Boundless by all else but my spiritless wings. My shoulders are steel.. Red Rover, send me right over.
Wait for the biggins.Again.For green... 14 minutes wasted. Accumulation of so much.. Like this purposely decorated painted speckled floor.. So many marks.. Hiding so much. Noticeably inward.
I am cornered. In my spot.I need my solitude this morning. Where is that bird?
I need an hour in a coffee shop with my pen... maybe some brandy.
I wish I could reach him to give him a hug. I hope he knows.
I think.
I heard a bird chirp this morning...
and I hope he did too.
Monday 7 December 2009
pOUnding head and spider EyEs
ToDay: My hEAd pOUnded and my lAshes wEre like sPider leGs
and n o t h i n g e l s e
Sunday 6 December 2009
sOmeDay sUndAy
I was writing on this road last week. Memory of Black Beauty- This week silent and scribbles. Until now-lost, a private waking dream. Stuck into a found paper of news and a long deliberated verdict. The bumpy road makes Halloween writing speak and rattles all around.
Stale broccoli in the air. Arrogance. The clouds are breaking. I am a blizzard, ready.
Sometimes I think electrical posts look like the Eiffel Tower... and I double take..... I'm interrupted to ask why three beds, a headboard, a sofa and a few drawers are simply thrown in a front yard. What happens to it all? What happened to me nOt feeling the ink this morning?
A little boy heard. Later confessed as seven years. Bragging to his teenage companions. "I'm nOt scared of nothing... I'm not even scared of monsters!".. Bless.
Stale broccoli in the air. Arrogance. The clouds are breaking. I am a blizzard, ready.
Sometimes I think electrical posts look like the Eiffel Tower... and I double take..... I'm interrupted to ask why three beds, a headboard, a sofa and a few drawers are simply thrown in a front yard. What happens to it all? What happened to me nOt feeling the ink this morning?
A little boy heard. Later confessed as seven years. Bragging to his teenage companions. "I'm nOt scared of nothing... I'm not even scared of monsters!".. Bless.
SaTurDay TuRn bAck (4)
------------------
This day: 24-10-09
------------------
He yells about a launch and an invoice.. to sort it out? With a shout?
We roll together, Aldgate East, in the west-it now-sets. Early. skin pale, nails rusted-light pollution-the only- s o l u t i o n.
Sore eyes dry and try, in the Crosswall, we stop.-Saying "we"? Am I blue and misinformed?
Associating them as we and them with me? You and me- do we make we? When is a "we" a we? What is the common thread to weave the we? Must we know a you to be a we? Or does a setting in individual isolation create the we? Are we then divided? Upper and lower? Deck? Ride? Hide? Realize the disbelief. Disco ball ear decorations of the she-we invfront of the me.
A little he next to me-confirmed a we, with a smile.-Is that an agreement of sorts? Or is there a need? A reason to unify-the magnetism of them and you to join my we?
We can be we if we accept the me as your we. It is us on this bus, although some may say it's just a me.
This day: 24-10-09
------------------
He yells about a launch and an invoice.. to sort it out? With a shout?
We roll together, Aldgate East, in the west-it now-sets. Early. skin pale, nails rusted-light pollution-the only- s o l u t i o n.
Sore eyes dry and try, in the Crosswall, we stop.-Saying "we"? Am I blue and misinformed?
Associating them as we and them with me? You and me- do we make we? When is a "we" a we? What is the common thread to weave the we? Must we know a you to be a we? Or does a setting in individual isolation create the we? Are we then divided? Upper and lower? Deck? Ride? Hide? Realize the disbelief. Disco ball ear decorations of the she-we invfront of the me.
A little he next to me-confirmed a we, with a smile.-Is that an agreement of sorts? Or is there a need? A reason to unify-the magnetism of them and you to join my we?
We can be we if we accept the me as your we. It is us on this bus, although some may say it's just a me.
deLayed dec 4
_____________
This morning: Kind. Grateful. Breaking light. Special needs. Innocent questions. Long time no see-Digibook man. Confirming my deferment to the start.
____________
Last night: (as mentioned last post): Standing central. Red. Approaching the hour. Carriage into pumpkin. We stand-Reminiscing..
Bombarded a man crunches her hand which clenched the pole. He turns-sways. Wobbles. "Sorries". Trips on air.. I hold his arm like tug of war, as his safety.
This is where it all starts. Briefly: He says: semi slobbering, well, not slobbering, but wet lips. You know the kind. Neatly groomed-sUper smiley and eyes loose.. Defragmented words.. his face very close to mine... "I am fffrrrrruuuuuckiiiing pisSSed", he rambles..laughing "and you? If you were pissed you'd have a better time than me"...
What? okay... We ask what he has been doing... "piSSSSSed".... "I love life.. I frrruuuucking lOve life... yOU? We say, more calmly...yes, we love life.. He raises one arm with triumphance..slurring.. again, "I frrrUcking lOve it man!"...He still has one leg and is losing his sense of gravity. Almost landing on laps, people move away. We are cornered, but not minding as we usually would.
Back and forth, he laughs, centimeters away from our faces...we laugh back...entertainment. He says he lives right outside the M-25. What tube stop? His language is his own. He continues, with the noodle arm point.. "If the next stop is purple I'm getting off.. It's fUcking puuuuRRRple... I'm fucking getting off there... PUUUURPLE!!"(there is no such thing as a purple exit or tube line) Smiling, I say okay, and I calmly cheer with him about purple. After all, it is a good color.
I ask him what his favorite thing is in the whole world. "Shagging birds... I love the birds... shAgging birds... " What's your favorite color? "Red...because I love shagging birds"... Okay--- What's your favorite fruit? " A fucking bananaaaaaaaa...you know why?... because you can fUck a fucking banana!!".... I tell him I happen to have a banana and ask if he wants to bend over. Indeed, he says yes. He turns, thrusted his butt back and bends over. wOw. I wished I really had a banana. He goes on and remembers, " I fuCKing pissed... lOve life... give me a hUg... "
We hug him, barely. "You didn't mean that hug at all..pfffft..." Okay, he was right. Perhaps he wasn't as drunk as he seemed. We didn't mean it. Didn't want to get too close either.
The next stop is NOT purple. He doesn't mind. It's his stop. It is our stop too. He stumbles and drools off. Off, thought to perhaps be switching trains...to his destination descriptively far... We see him with slant high stepping-straight legging it out to the footpath. Plastic army man style. He has no clue...but he loves life....and for the sake of him, I do too.
This morning: Kind. Grateful. Breaking light. Special needs. Innocent questions. Long time no see-Digibook man. Confirming my deferment to the start.
____________
Last night: (as mentioned last post): Standing central. Red. Approaching the hour. Carriage into pumpkin. We stand-Reminiscing..
Bombarded a man crunches her hand which clenched the pole. He turns-sways. Wobbles. "Sorries". Trips on air.. I hold his arm like tug of war, as his safety.
This is where it all starts. Briefly: He says: semi slobbering, well, not slobbering, but wet lips. You know the kind. Neatly groomed-sUper smiley and eyes loose.. Defragmented words.. his face very close to mine... "I am fffrrrrruuuuuckiiiing pisSSed", he rambles..laughing "and you? If you were pissed you'd have a better time than me"...
What? okay... We ask what he has been doing... "piSSSSSed".... "I love life.. I frrruuuucking lOve life... yOU? We say, more calmly...yes, we love life.. He raises one arm with triumphance..slurring.. again, "I frrrUcking lOve it man!"...He still has one leg and is losing his sense of gravity. Almost landing on laps, people move away. We are cornered, but not minding as we usually would.
Back and forth, he laughs, centimeters away from our faces...we laugh back...entertainment. He says he lives right outside the M-25. What tube stop? His language is his own. He continues, with the noodle arm point.. "If the next stop is purple I'm getting off.. It's fUcking puuuuRRRple... I'm fucking getting off there... PUUUURPLE!!"(there is no such thing as a purple exit or tube line) Smiling, I say okay, and I calmly cheer with him about purple. After all, it is a good color.
I ask him what his favorite thing is in the whole world. "Shagging birds... I love the birds... shAgging birds... " What's your favorite color? "Red...because I love shagging birds"... Okay--- What's your favorite fruit? " A fucking bananaaaaaaaa...you know why?... because you can fUck a fucking banana!!".... I tell him I happen to have a banana and ask if he wants to bend over. Indeed, he says yes. He turns, thrusted his butt back and bends over. wOw. I wished I really had a banana. He goes on and remembers, " I fuCKing pissed... lOve life... give me a hUg... "
We hug him, barely. "You didn't mean that hug at all..pfffft..." Okay, he was right. Perhaps he wasn't as drunk as he seemed. We didn't mean it. Didn't want to get too close either.
The next stop is NOT purple. He doesn't mind. It's his stop. It is our stop too. He stumbles and drools off. Off, thought to perhaps be switching trains...to his destination descriptively far... We see him with slant high stepping-straight legging it out to the footpath. Plastic army man style. He has no clue...but he loves life....and for the sake of him, I do too.
Thursday 3 December 2009
tRAveL tOmOrrOw.tOday, MJ
Originally I skipped the write. My right. To and from. From and back to..the two of us. An encounter that I can't miss to share. Tomorrow I will tell of the wobble drunk wOw.
First, Today. Thriller theatre show visited. Perfect scribble waiting. Off the subject of weekday travels... I share:
---------------------
August 26 2009
and a couple days after. Writing
r e v i s i t e d
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Chatter of the streets. Littering tabloids.. in people's hearts.. why do we care? Do we? Memorials, radio station repeats.. cars blasting.. How? -"they" say.. Homicide!???
Pressured by a desire to sleep?? Injected, re-injected. False hopes.. forever dreams.. pot found!? And not to cook.
Bleach to clean, erase his face.. skin so thin.
Thursday. Burial. Thursday. Third. September, a suicide of sorts. Self medication. Dedication to fool an audience.
Over power the coward. Hidden. Forbidden. Inquiries of who.. who's .. Fathers, friends.. F R E N Z Y...
Mothers and maybes.. Societal sense that his life was ours, shared, theirs, an entitlement our ears own..
Connection of reflections... personal memories coupled with tone and beats...moves and moon...the list could go on.
He is gone. Plain and simple. b l a c k and w h i t e.
Wednesday 2 December 2009
drAw and riDe, hiDe.
----------------------------------------d r a w n o u t
(and drawn in)
----------------------------------------
The pain of the silence-interrupted motion is excruciating. Holding temples like rats detecting the high pitch of a trap. A game of darts. Again.
A supposed secret sketch-deep eyes. Dark brows. M folds on forehead. Three of them. Younger than he seems. Looking opposite and a scribble varied. Kitty corner.
He smiles, laughs in slow motion mute mode. He does a slow head turn.. and an oH nO yOU didn't face. I think- I've tricked him. .. he doesn't think it's him. I pretend to glance with intent at another. Preceded by another silent still shout of the commute, (also excruciating with the tick of time), he spoke.. "So can I see it???? "
Raspy voice-direct. Almost an order. I shuffle and tap. Mumble. I flash the page.. mutter, "Just scribbles... really..."- an uncomfortable giggle. Coping in mechanics. He is nOt amused and retracts to his dark alley. My pen is black.
I think - he has not eagle eyes... and the ink is not a true likeness.
Looking down-the literary scribble starts (started). Another pause and he rasps raps and rattles.. "Oh, so nOw yOu are wRitiinG sOmething down!?" What!?, my inner speech circles, dances, hollars, riots.
I ignore, and with a mouthful ready, my concentration falsely continues. I do my duty. Head down.
He leaves at East Ham. I didn't look. I kind of wanted to. He is my second to last. Appropriately memorable to complete the collection of
l i n e s. Tube aversion. Observations. I have a funny feeling about it all.
Tuesday 1 December 2009
lOst & fOunD
A creamscicle sky with spray paint. Trails of a rocket-Stripes and grids. Scan. Refocus. Loud talkers. Moaners. Commonality of lack of time. Identifiably so-turn it down.Charlie Brown's teacher. This time is for peace. Soak in that star that was clouded yesterday. It has something to tell us..
And I think...my life is like this blue thread.. lost and found.. weaving, tangled.. free.
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