Fences

This, they unanimously decided, was a loss.
The fumes from the burning rubber filled their noses and clouded their eyes as their sacrificial offering went up in flames. This was as sentimental as it got on the road. The girls sat, perched on makeshift chairs around the fire. It licked and chewed feverishly at the carcass. A flat tire. Their flat tire, to be more precise. You win some, you lose some, they had said. This, they unanimously decided, was a loss.

Julie didn't look at me. Not since the arrival of her cousin from America. She had an excuse now. She had somewhere else to place her attention.
It'd gotten a lot worse over the last few months. The same white coat and stethoscope who'd greeted me all smiles in June, kept repeating and repeating his new favourite line.
"We still have hope." His smile on his lips, his eyes on my wife. Her mind elsewhere.
After that, everyone at the hospital kept asking what they could do for me. Did I want a cup of tea? Was I in any pain? Would I need help in the bathroom? The answer was always yes. Yes, I would always need help. So I asked to go home, more to appease my long suffering Julie than out of embarrassment for myself. At some point, being shy gives way to necessity, I suppose. And so I was sent home. 
It was hard for my wife, even with the nurse visiting four days a week. She bathed me and cooked for me and cleaned up after me and literally supported me. And in return I gave her love. I didn't have anything else to give.
Then her cousin arrived from America, and something changed. Julie smiled, even laughed sometimes. She relaxed. The worry and pain I had seen in her turned to seeds of happiness and laughter. It was then that I realised my wife didn't love me anymore. And I was grateful.
She spent her days living. I spend my days being; just waiting for that final sweep of relief as she let her eyes look into mine for one last moment. My eyes, already gone.

One Man

One man, though. One man, and his dog.

Winter came on strong. Water pelted down to soak bodies being grabbed by gusts and gulps of angry air. And soon the figures were forced to vanish. The streets were handed over to the army that marched in. More men, more men, glad to show no mercy.
The ground, which had been kind to those that caressed it, now took joy in playing tricks. The city lost all self assurance, it's once brave feet sliding from beneath it on the deep set ice. It's eyes watered from the stinging winds.
This city had been scorned again. 

One man, though. One man could not squirrel away into the warmth of his winter cocoon. He trod on and on, his little shadow at his heel, and on and on they trod. For need. For must. For fear he was already auditioning to play a part he could not want. If he was cast to be stone, it would not stop his little shadow from still pacing at his heel.

L

with each pulse of my body,
every fibre of my being,
and all of my heart, for as long as it keeps beating.

L

We are this downbeat generation.
And there's your only explanation for how we treat each other
gun down and beat each other to within and inch of our lives
and no one bats an eye.
And those of us who are still fine?
Well, we must believe in some divine power.
But that doesn't really matter because as we listen to the drone and moan of our leaders
we realise they don't really need us.
It's a staged fight, but it's alright.
We only live until we die.

Enough

The truth is... the truth is not the same as a fact. Truth, I have discovered, is subjective. I can say that it's a good day and it be true to me but not to someone else, and the same goes for feelings and emotions. I'm going with the flow of this thought now, so forgive me, ghost reader, for the vague ambiguity and the brevity of it all. Clarity is always oh so fleeting.

What is true, to me? What do I want?

Less time in my head, more time acting

Longer days with a brighter sun

Create and see creation

More savouring and less chugging

I want colour

Less clothes. No, different clothes. Clothes that make me want to stand up taller

I want a chess board and a card night

I want to learn to read braille and speak sign language

I want to save money and be reserved about it

And then I want to spend it all in adventure

I want to meet people with unconventional views on sex

I want to mingle with strangers who don't speak my language

I never want to order 'the usual'

I want to give up smoking

I want to cheer people up and on

I want to remember you and be remembered in return

Most of all I want to believe that this list will really make me happy. And when I have made myself believe... I want them all to happen, and for that to be enough.

Today I Know

Today I know how Alice felt as she sat among the long grass and heard the flowers sing. The blades of grass glimmer as the sun beats down upon them and they dance relentlessly in the light breeze.

As I sit among it I start to wonder, what are my dreams? I know his and hers and yours and how they all are similar to mine. Maybe we all have dreams in common, or maybe over time you've all influenced me.

My dream is this - to sit in the sunshine and be well and able to say what I want and do what I want. I want good wine and food and days spent in good company, in friendship and in love. And in the end I want to grow old, I really do, and by my side I want someone who I know very well. Someone who I know just as well as they know me. And so when they're gone, I won't mind so much because we'll have left behind us a trail of memories that will warm my soul if ever I get lonely.

I don't know when these things will happen, or whether some have already begun. I can't wait to look back and be able to know who I am and who I was. It all starts here, among the long grass and birds, with the sun shining down through the wispy feathers that cloud the sky.

Beauty

I remember the first time I thought she was beautiful. It wasn’t the first time I met her, for I don’t think beauty can be determined in such a brief time. No, the first time I thought she was beautiful was when she sat next to me one day. There were lots of us and we all had drinks and smiles on our faces, but it was only her smile that caught my eye. I admired the truth in it and the way it spilled over from her lips to her cheeks and to her eyes and her body. It engulfed her, and me with it.

When her smile went away, you couldn’t even suspect the kind of way it could captivate you. When her smile went away, there was a different kind of beauty altogether.

“Here.” She handed me a drink and stood beside me.

“Thank you.”

I had offered to get the first round, and so had she, and somehow she’d now managed to buy the second round as well. She was persuasive like that, and however much I wanted to think it a sly act, I knew it was kind hearted.

            I wanted to be alone with her, twirl her round the floor in a poor attempt at dancing and kiss her. The music was so loud that to talk I’d put one had on the back of her neck, pull her close to me, my lips brushing her ear, and even then we just nodded and smiled, oblivious.

            I felt like I knew her now. Not completely- I’m not sure that ever happens- but some. There is this thing I do every time I'm with her, and I sometimes get so distracted by it that I end up not saying anything for a long time. Every time I see her, I take note of the things I've learnt, to remind myself that they're still there. At first it was her smile, her eyes, her hand in mine, her voice. And now it's her character, her laugh, her morals, and the depth of her thoughts.
           Whoever it was that said beauty is only skin deep, I think they must’ve lived a very fast paced life. I live slowly, learn slowly, and get to know people slowly, and with that comes a different kind of understanding.

            I understand what I see in front of me. I understand what is hidden under the surface. I understand the way I feel. And most of all, when I look at her, I understand how much more there is to know.

And I wish, oh I so wish, that I keep finding the kind of beauty that I have now come to know.

Gremlins

“He’s not here yet.”

“He will be.”

I breathed heavily, in and out, trying to stay calm. “What if he doesn’t show up?”

“Don’t panic, he will, and I’m very excited for you.”

I turned around on the spot, trying to see across the square, towards where all the busses got in and the crowds heaved and pulsed. I looked up and into the dull yellow glow of the streetlight.

“Hello,” came a voice and I looked down, my eyes catching an almost familiar face.

“He’s here gotta go,” I said all at once and hung up the phone. I breathed one last calming breath. “Hi!” Coulda said something more poetic for a start, but it’ll do.

He came towards me and gave me a hug, a kiss on the cheek. It lingered and I did too, in the warmth of his being.

The stark contrast when we went inside was a relief. The blustering winds and rain ceased and I could smell mulled wine and tapas. The whole place was dark, but not dark and dingy, just dark- romantic even. There were some people at the far end watching Gremlins on a pull down screen. He bought the drinks and we sat nowhere near them. It was peaceful being near the water on this little boat and we talked about nothing and everything and I tried to remember it all.

When he looked away I would look at him- try to take in his face, his eyes, his hands and lips- then he’d look back and I would look away.

Damn this being shy business, it’s too much effort. I kept checking my phone for the time, couldn’t miss my bus, and I felt rude taking my eyes off him even for a few seconds. We did the same thing all evening, talking and drinking just in different places and I stopped checking the time for a while.

I did have to go in the end, and left half a drink that I would have much rather finished, or at least used as an excuse to sit a while longer in the warmth of good conversation. 

The Day I Met Her

I met The Girl on my way home tonight. She walked along with me at the same pace, but her posture was different. She extended herself outwards and then slouched her shoulders back into herself again, as if at times she forgot the cold.

The wind blew fierce in our faces but I was the only one who felt it. I huddled close to the fur of my coat and put my hands in my pocket for warmth. The Girl did the same. As we emerged into the yellow glare of the next street light she lagged behind. Perhaps she was staring up at the smoggy glow, like me, watching the rain as it fell earthbound.

By the time I reached the park, which engulfed me in it's darkness, The Girl had gone. She hadn't said goodbye, nor told me her name or shown me her face. I walked on, ignorant and blissful. Home was nearby and I could already hear the kettle boiling. I didn't mind leaving her behind. We would meet again tomorrow on my long walk home, and her feet would stick to mine. It's almost like we are one and the same, but we're not. For she is she and I am merely I.

To see a familiar face

The spark of recognition, the lucid familiarity crept its way in like the summer that we’ve just noticed is awakening all around us. The touch of skin on skin was intimate and grew less foreign with every tender look that we exchanged. Inside I’m a complete mess, shambled and confused, and maybe you are too, but outside, where you can see me and I can see you, everything is smooth and calm and natural. Your hand upon my arm and a kiss on my cheek opens that locked box and out flutters all the things I put away for safekeeping. They’re released into the freedom of the air.

And then they’re whisked away with the breeze, gone forever. 

Norton and Bukowski

As she lay there, in a room that wasn't hers, she could still hear the loud shrill of Graham Norton's voice resounding in her head, and then it's out there and resounding off the walls as well. Turns out Will.I.Am is funny, and here she thought she had good taste.

It's late and she's tried her best to start the Charles Bukowski book, but her eyes blur and sentences run into each other all across the page and she can feel the onset of her own decent into ordinary madness.

"Perhaps another time." Her voice joins the echoes on the walls.

She picks up Don De Lillo instead, to see what he has to say, but falls asleep before she is in any way moved.

Mr Wolfs and Too Many Kates

What number was this? I tried to count back the drinks I'd had that night. My head was spinny and I couldn't get past seven without forgetting what I was trying to count. I shouldn't have mixed that cheap white rum with that cheap wine. I'm a fool. So was everyone else though so it was ok. We bumped into Katie, a friend of a friend no one had seen in ages and we were smiles and nods then, happy to be all drunk together and be involved.

We stumbled across the hippodrome, all loud voices and big gestures that had already annoyed the neighbour, some round angry man in a pink polo shirt and boxer shorts on the landing talking to us all cranky toned, asking us to walk less loudly. Where were we going? There wasn't a plan, there never was. I delved into my bag for filters but took the box out too quickly and little white sticks scattered all over the floor. I knelt down on the wet ground and picked up all but one, maybe someone else would need that.

By the time we got to Mr Wolfs I was just lighting up, and sat in a doorway while the smoke filled my lungs and made my head all light and breezy. Then into the queue we went and near the front I saw Katy G and yelled across to her with too much gusto. She came and hugged me and everyone else moved past me and into the dark and dingy room while I stood out in the rain, which eventually hit my cigarette and extinguished it.

We moved inside, past the guy on the door and past the queue of people, and straight to the bar. We swapped digits and talked about alcohol and the men we didn't miss and how they were all missing other girls now anyway, and planned to play music and everything seemed like a great idea.

My old friend Kate appeared then and grabbed me by the hand and led me straight onto the dance floor where we twirled and shook and looked at all the drunken people we were with and the madness of the birthday boy.

The Little Red Box

"I've lost all my crazy," she said, leaning back against the cool headboard of her bed.

"Nah," he said, "you've got plenty. You're alright." He nodded to her vinyl collection all cool and breezy. "Which ones are important?"

She smiled and her crazed mind subsided and she was normal again. She scrambled over the bed with no clothes on till she fell down next to him, cocooning herself in the covers on the floor. "These ones."

She pulled over the little red box. It was empty once, but now it was heavy with things that meant something.

He had a rifle through and nodded again with a smile. "Pretty good collection you've got."

It was more than pretty good, but she didn't tell him that. She delved into the box and slipped a record smoothly from it's sleeve and placed it gently into place. The crackling sound filled the room and she felt her body awaken.

She turned to him, all urges and enthusiasm. He was handsome, but so was everyone these days. His hair fell all over his face, and he swept it away with one hand while the other removed a cigarette from his lips. The smoke billowed out and up. She gestured that she'd like a toke and he put the cigarette straight to her lips. His hand lingered there, close to her, and she wondered briefly if it was possible to excite something passionate in a person this breezy and controlled.

The thought passed.

If He Were The Poet, I Am The Poem

I cleaned my room today, first time since I moved in. It was all just a petty distraction, but hey at least it's clean. There's two wine glasses left over, one tainted with lipstick and half full because I couldn't be bothered to have the wretched taste in my mouth.

I went over to the side of the room that I never visit, that alien land. I crawled over the made up side of the bed and found a left over cookie wrapper, a bottle of water and a toothbrush. I threw the wrapper away. And the toothbrush, I threw that away too.

I drank the wine then. A bottle and then some and made my room a mess again with clothes and make-up. It works sometimes in making me smile, but on other occasions I can tell I'm just trying to cover something up. This is one of those times.

I don't know what I'll do now- where I'll go, who I'll see, what dreams will come true. But at least I know which ones won't, and that's something I can cross off the list.

P.S. I need to get a bike, and a good one. I need a goddam good one with working brakes and lights and a flashy luminous jacket so everyone knows I want to live.

C

I'm blue like the sky at dusk and dawn,
or red like lust and anger.
There's green jealousy in my eyes,
that flash when I'm in danger
of falling for another face,
and another short adventure.

River Paddling

River paddling is what we used to call it. On searing summer days we’d find our way to the marina and set up blankets and kites and eat ice cream and share laughs and stories, or sit in silence and be washed in the sweet relief of the soothing breeze.

One time we were at a friend’s house and decided to take a shortcut, and stumbled upon a little stream where the water had taken a detour from the great river that ran through our town. There we dipped our feet dubiously into the refreshing water. It only came to our knees and as our toes reached the bottom they were met with unstable ground and rough jagged stones, but we didn’t care, or think about it.

I learnt to skim rocks there one day, and another day we brought a lilo and took turns in sailing a few feet downstream. Eventually we realised we’d have to walk home soaked through and the fun became more refined.

On the very last day of summer we’d all arranged to meet there at midday when the sun was high in the sky and we’d have plenty of time to dry off and relax afterwards. We held our breaths and all jumped in and off we went, down the stream till it was deep and reedy, and we could no longer touch the bottom.

Fishing rods were held with angry hands as we thrashed by, disturbing the peace and chasing their prizes away, but they didn’t say anything and so we carried on.

The sides eventually became high and slippery with mud and we struggled to drag ourselves out and onto the banks just using the roots from the trees that towered above. Then we traipsed it back and lay on a little island of grass while the water ran off us and back into the thirsty ground.

River paddling was the greatest part of my summer. I’ve moved away now, and that town isn’t mine any longer, but every time I think back and remember, I know that I once called it home. 

F

A smile came over my face and I saw them walking out the exit and towards me. We embraced each other in familiar hugs and each lit a cigarette. The smoking was the only sane reason to be standing outside in weather like this.

We caught up quickly, in short summaries of our lives since we'd last seen each other- it'd been too long- and then we headed back into the warmth. Now we're ordering drinks and shots because they were advertised as cheap but really it's a waste of money.

I've got a dry throat. Every time I swallow I feel like the inside of my neck is sticking together for a second, and then coming unstuck and suddenly the air is rushing back through. Maybe it's the wine, or the cigarettes or maybe it's just me and I'm exaggerating it all. Either way it's uncomfortable and I'm finding it hard to think of anything else.

We talk a lot about work, and I try and convince them that I'm going somewhere, that I've got a plan. I don't, but there's time. The evening passes too quick and too tipsily and instead of getting on my bus I find myself walking in the darkness. I want that familiarity to last and so I walk myself to it and find myself in your arms, in your smile, and in your heart, and fall asleep all hand in familiar hand.

The Wolf in the Night

A squabble broke out and no one intervened. Through the pulse of the air came words all obscene. The haze of drinks that spilt and clinked, and smiles all guileful and wired, were not enough for us to think of anything but lust. In smoke filled air with skin all bare, we were night owls and brave, not those daytime cowards. Everything was nothing and nothing was ours. 

The Village Of Joy

The road was orange with sand and dust, or maybe it was ground down pebbles and rocks from years of sandals traipsing one foot after the other. I don’t know how long we’d been walking; it felt like an hour, maybe two. My legs were aching from the uneven terrain and my skin was blistering from the sun. I’d be lobster red by tomorrow.

“What time is it, guys?” I asked, sure that if we didn’t speed up the sun that shone so powerfully would soon drop behind the mountaintops and we’d be plunged into darkness. There were no streetlights out here.

“Um, it’s twenty to two,” Sam said, while the other two continued with our alphabet game, which we’d already played twice over.

I shook my foot furiously to try and rid my shoe of a stone. I knew I should’ve worn flip-flops. “Are you kidding? You know we’ve only been walking for about a half hour or so.” I bent down and took my right shoe off, hopping while I tipped it wrong side up and watched the sharp little stone fall to the floor where it disappeared among the many others.

“How much further do you think we’ve got to go?”

“Not sure,” I said, “last time I was here we drove. Sure it won’t be too long though.”

We’d come, just the four of us on a holiday to the Spanish countryside. Our little villa was high on a hill, accompanied by just a handful of other houses and, right at the bottom of the hill, a bar with English speaking owners. We were grateful for that, but not for the fact that it was shut on Mondays, and without them to provide us with a taxi number we’d been unable to get to Villajoiosa- the closest town, appropriately named 'the village of joy'- to get any food. We’d opted instead to walk to the next little village; Bella Orcheta, I think it was called.

From the top of the hill where we were staying, it didn’t look like a long walk, but in actual fact it took us hours, which wouldn’t have been bad, except the sun was murderous and the wild dogs that barked and snarled seemed to have followed us the entire journey. We rarely saw them, but we knew they were there.

Still, we were happy just the four of us, and the smiles never left our thirsty lips.

O

The moon smiled down at them like a cheshire cat without his eyes, casting a dull yellow glow upon the path in front. The way was strewn with wet leaves and small puddles, but they ignored it and walked, her arm linked through his, in animated conversation. He had declared his love for her to the world in no uncertain terms, and even though she scorned him in public, she secretly admired his devoted nature. He told her wild stories of cheats and swindlers, and how he had come to meet them, and how each time one adventure would end, he would smile because another was beginning. She was his adventure now, and would do all she could to ensure that when he left, which he would, he would take with him a story greater than any other.

All Too Common

I'm late for my bus again. I know I've missed it but I run down the road anyway, making splashy splashy noises as I go on the rain glazed pavements, as if somehow this will give me back the fifteen minutes I lost from being late out of work. Trying to light my cigarette at the same time as running is a mistake, the lighter flame lashes out at me and ash from the badly rolled cigarette flicks up and into my eyes. I carry on with less haste, even from here I can see that there is no bus at the stop, and the world being the way it is means that because I'm late, it was, for once, on time.
I expected to miss the bus though so I'm not too aggravated, I guess I even prepared for this, with a George Orwell book in my bag and four chocolate chip cookies.

I can't seem to stop running though.

My Lover, I'm a Dreamer

You who comes so fickle in the night, and leaves sweeter in the sun's rays; what I would give to have you stay a while longer. Amuse me for this time, my fancy. Leave your thoughts and dream with mine? You say we haven't got all the time in the world.
You live for the night, so I'll dream in the day of a moon without end. Will that fool you enough to make you fool enough to stay?

I'll call him trust

If I give you my trust, will I be betrayed? If I call you my happiness, will I be dismayed? I don't know whether I'm telling the truth or a lie at any given time. Feelings of reality are blurred and smudged by my ideologies. Sometimes I hold back, sometimes I cross the line.
I'm never sorry, though, that way there's nothing to forgive. If you make mistakes I must make them too, but I'd rather make mistakes with you than make them all alone and have no one to confide in, to laugh with. If we stand shoulder to shoulder, we'll be a better barricade to the looming waves, but I'd rather stand in front of you, facing you, and take the hit. At least that way I'll be able to see you, clear as day in all your insecurity and vulnerability, and know for sure that you're still braver than me.

It's easy to be a coward these days; there's so many ways to hide.

Falls, Brawls and Pub Crawls

I have to lean against the lamp post. I try and play it off as casual and relaxed, but they must know. My legs have given up the fight to stand, they're trembling and shaking their fists at me, trying to get my attention. There's no time to think of trivial things like health though; my mentality has long since deteriorated, and I knew my body would follow. It's a god damn sheep, following my mind- the drug addled shepherd- into the belly of a whale. It can still call 999, I guess, but no one will pick up.
I should go pick up.
No, there's no time to think about my health. I still can't decide which is more deserving of my attention; the excitement or the nerves- both need it undivided, but I'm still undecided. Maybe I'll forget the lot and give over all my thoughts to this cigarette which is stuck to my hand.
I can't shake it off.

The Alarm Sounds

The alarm sounds. There's too many awkward moments. I never have those. Everything is comfort to me, I am comfort, I'm made of bloody feathers and fur and soft blankets.
Except I'm not really. I like to pretend.
You look at me. I like that look, that face, but it'll never be enough, it'll never be him. I turn away so as not to get sucked in. It works, I'm free again and I know I can plough on through.

I'll move away one day. You'll forget I was ever here and I'll be having this exact moment with another person, in another place, in another time. I'll be their confusion then, but not for long. The everlasting, ever moving blip on the radar.

False alarm.

Homeward Bound

Thud, thud, thud, thud- the monotonous drone of wheels passing over miles and miles of track, the anti-climatic hum of taking on speed till the thuds become so blurred that you can’t tell one from the other. The dreaded clattering noise, an untiring sound- it’s all happening just below my feet. We begin to rock side to side in jerky movements, the train tilting to latitudes that convince my heart we'll topple over. The platform runs out and drifts away into the distance, not waving, not saying goodbye, no tears in its all-seeing eyes. It’s happy to watch us leave; the last train of the day. We leave it resting in sought after silence, as we take the ritual sounds away.

Thud, thud, thud, thud.