Saturday 24 July 2010
Friday 23 July 2010
Endless Train
Three random connections from an endless train journey.
He was American; stepped on the train. Long, lanky hair framing a middle-aged moustache. Lean and tanned, he wore a carefully pressed grey suit, a grey shirt. And why the bright orange shoes? His face was crevassed. I wished I had the courage to say, "Could I take your photograph, Sir. You look interesting".
The return journey, and I read a book that explains the spread of syphilis in Brooklyn. It's interesting. The seat in front of me is occupied by a young Indian lady. She speaks louder and louder into her mobile telephone. The language is a curious mixture of English and Indian, and the conversation becomes more heated. I lean forward and cough discretely. Later she passes by my seat pushing the drinks trolley. She apologises for speaking so loudly and I smile.
They will be lovers. In just a few moments I will hear their hushed, excited, exploratory voices. I know they will kiss and part endlessly. They will be lost in it.
This is my train journey.
He was American; stepped on the train. Long, lanky hair framing a middle-aged moustache. Lean and tanned, he wore a carefully pressed grey suit, a grey shirt. And why the bright orange shoes? His face was crevassed. I wished I had the courage to say, "Could I take your photograph, Sir. You look interesting".
The return journey, and I read a book that explains the spread of syphilis in Brooklyn. It's interesting. The seat in front of me is occupied by a young Indian lady. She speaks louder and louder into her mobile telephone. The language is a curious mixture of English and Indian, and the conversation becomes more heated. I lean forward and cough discretely. Later she passes by my seat pushing the drinks trolley. She apologises for speaking so loudly and I smile.
They will be lovers. In just a few moments I will hear their hushed, excited, exploratory voices. I know they will kiss and part endlessly. They will be lost in it.
This is my train journey.
Sunday 4 July 2010
Friday 2 July 2010
Stories from the Apocalypse - Sand
Some people say we're all descended from story. Story is all, and all is story. I think some people just don't read so much these days, and perhaps my eyes grow. Dim.
The biting wind is endless. A long, eternal stretch where sand is withered, whitened bone-rib, riding out the storm. Swirling.
Do you see, out there in the distance? Running down the molten wave, each step bleeds a glassy stare. We cannot avoid his eye.
Crow flies and we quicken down the sand. It stands before us, the skull, rictus grinning as wind whips in and out of the deep-set sockets. Motionless, grinning. We circle the wooden stake and return to face the skull. Bowing down we take our knife and carve out the eyes. For him to see.
Time passes and the sands snake silently down. A woman approaches the stake. Gold-ringed and bronze, she bears a purple scarf. Scraping the crusted blood to kiss his eyes. In rapture. The woman takes the scarf from her shoulders and wraps it tenderly around the skull - purple binding the coronal suture. She falls to the foot of the stake.
The words fly home. Crow bound and circling the stake, they lift the condyle voice as one. And so a story is borne on the winds. Story is all, and all is story. And somehow people just don't read so much these days.
The biting wind is endless. A long, eternal stretch where sand is withered, whitened bone-rib, riding out the storm. Swirling.
Do you see, out there in the distance? Running down the molten wave, each step bleeds a glassy stare. We cannot avoid his eye.
Crow flies and we quicken down the sand. It stands before us, the skull, rictus grinning as wind whips in and out of the deep-set sockets. Motionless, grinning. We circle the wooden stake and return to face the skull. Bowing down we take our knife and carve out the eyes. For him to see.
Time passes and the sands snake silently down. A woman approaches the stake. Gold-ringed and bronze, she bears a purple scarf. Scraping the crusted blood to kiss his eyes. In rapture. The woman takes the scarf from her shoulders and wraps it tenderly around the skull - purple binding the coronal suture. She falls to the foot of the stake.
The words fly home. Crow bound and circling the stake, they lift the condyle voice as one. And so a story is borne on the winds. Story is all, and all is story. And somehow people just don't read so much these days.
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