Status Report

How the wheel turns.

I work two jobs now. I love my paycheck. Looking into French classes and working out at the firm gym; keep in shape for longshore (not to mention my health) and really taking the first steps to actually remove the rust from my language skills. Juggling the boyfriend and the family (who do not like him despite only meeting him three times; they don’t like how he looks. This from my sister in particular who urges me to dump him every time she sees me. And has done so since Christmas Eve. They’re shallow like that, the girls. Parents just want me happy and treated well.) and friends. The car is in working order and I’m keeping an eye on its maintenance. Able to actually afford taking care of it. Trying out new places to hang and trying out this happy hour thing with co-workers. Been relatively good in keeping up with friends and with writing in my journal. Filled about half of it since I started in April. Not bad. Could be better. It’s nice. I feel like life is getting onto a track that I can control, to an extent.

If I get hired on permanently, I’ll move out for sure.  Preferably around Capitol Hill or Fremont/Wallingford. Keeping track of how much I spend and determined to kill my loans as soon as possible. Have to kick the coffee habit. Seriously at least one cup a day, possibly two some days. In the market for a new pair of headphones and a few additional ‘professional’ level shirts for work, regardless.  Otherwise, looking like a ragamuffin in a law firm does not fly with folks.  I already have a little bit of hearing loss because of those damn fucking ear-buds which I hate and loathe. Have not listened too much to music of late due to such.

I still intend to do what I’d like to, that is, save up for a Masters degree and try my luck abroad. Possibly get through some English as a second language classes. Volunteer at some of the community colleges if possible. Dunno. I just need the time and time is in short supply it seems.  I need to work further on my writing. If me and the boy have divergent views on the long term, then, that’s that.  He knows what he wants and I know what I want. And  I want to do a lot before I ever take up any sort of station in the kitchen cooking up damn good food. I’ve inherited that from my mother it seems. Moments when I catch myself turning into my parents are scary and slightly upsetting.

But we’ll see where the future goes. Otherwise, I can safely say I’ve lashed a ship on the way to Korea, then Japan (with some hay, apparently) and came out of it in utter pain as the muscles in my hands, wrists, arms, and back shrieked at me all of the 4th of July.  But I’m not complaining. I’m happy with things right now, even if it could be better.

Dear sir,

I still feel angry whenever I think about those autumn months long past. I think about striking up a conversation, but I’m sure it’d be striking a match in a tank of low-octane gas. Meredith knows my rants best of all. I can go for hours fueled on memories, even now. There are boxes of the stuff shoved away in a room in my brain. I hide the key from Leon, clutch it to my chest until its imprint sits in my palm, and brush away the few picks and hairpins he takes up against the metal lock, stilling his curious hand. And he understands. And he stops. The little he knows is merely what he can see through the mail slot. A bio-hazard sign adorns the door, containing all the built up vitriol and toxicity I’m still siphoning off even today.  Waiting for the material to dissipate, to decompose.  In hindsight, I feel as though I was growing into a more terrible person, rather than better, which is how it should have been rather than was.

I still feel deeply ashamed of what happened and my role in the events of nearly a year ago. That’s a parlor thrown wide open and I don’t bother to screen it off. It’s the black badge on my breast and I’ll make no bones about its explanation to those who need to know.  What would it speak about me were I to choose concealing the entirety of that room in a nameless warehouse? Just to present a pleasing and pretty picture? Not something I can do.

I’m still sorry for what happened to you, but there’s no way to reverse the damage. It’s like piecing together a shattered mirror and calling it whole — the cracks are livid as ever, the tape is shoddy and patchwork, and the tiniest bits are gone for good.  For that, I will never stop being sorry and the role I played in breaking that mirror.

In my own life, it’s fashioned a different sort of person of myself and that person, I can live with her, because I don’t know how to not live with her. How to let her cripple and control me. I can’t change the past, but my future is always up for re-arrangement. Trying to do the right thing is what I want. I’ll try to keep plodding along and doing what I am able, reaching and stretching to accomplish those things I think beyond my ken.  I want to surprise myself and refashion the scraps and edges and shards of history into a new mosaic-me. Clearer. Yet, I’m still at a loss for what to do with those hot coals of rage. They’re forming the foundations of me and I doubt they will ever truly go away. As ever, I’m still convalescing, too.

I wish you the best, in that benign, aloof way. The way of strangers. Polite, disinterested.  If you need to hate me to heal, use me as a punching bag, do so if you wish; I’ve earned it as far as I know. But don’t continue blaming me. It’s just an excuse to do nothing, to hang on rather than move on. An excuse to wander in seething circles. I know. I’ve been there.  Personally, I hope you just couldn’t care less anymore. I’d be grateful for that. It’s the complete end of the chapter as far as I know.

And you know even in spite of myself, sometimes, I still miss you.  Sometimes.

Just another day

Got my first longshore job over the weekend, want to conduct an observational study on deodorant brands, and still trying — as ever — to land a more stable and steady day job.

Was able to grab a hoot job (3AM to 8AM on Pier 18). For the first 10-15 minutes of the shift, pretty much followed after an older woman finding a foreman to actually figure out what the hell I was doing as a stevedore. But once all the lanes were set up, it was a 2-3 hour wait in the dark with Jeff who explained as much to me as possible while watching the other stevedores and slingmen work the other semis. Awkward moment meeting Marlin again, family friend and father of my childhood friend I kept running into at the hall. 15-16 years.  Some of those drivers were getting tired by about 6-7AM. Could tell by the way they hugged the land precariously close to the cone bins and us, as well as the way some of them braked too fast to a stop. Any harder and the container could smash the drivers cabin. It only slid forward and hit the bar of the chassis/bomb-carts. Still worrisome for a skipped beat.

Most memorable line of the night: “Don’t forget your seat-belts. I can’t stress that enough. Don’t forget your seat belts. I don’t want to be picking your face out of the steering wheel and windows if I don’t have to.” Talking about the semis, I just need to find someone with a trailer or a boat that I can practice backing in with. Jack-knife that thing wrong and the whole thing could tip over.

Went to go to pick up some more deodorant and, faced with a wall of possibilities, left with nothing. Did a rough comparison of quantity/price/target market for the Degree brand. Sample of  13 women’s deodorant and 12 men’s. On average women paid slightly more for less deodorant.

Concerning how I ascertained the target audience, the labels themselves usually read as being directed at men/women with explicit blurbs such as “For men/women”. Additionally, the styles of the labels themselves were quite uniform for one group versus another. Men got the dark, industrial, brooding colors of manly forest green and steel and black and red and white in the labels, whereas women were more solid pastels with little floral designs and black and white and some red labeling. The containers for women tended to be longer and slimmer, the containers for men, broader and slightly shorter than the womens container. This is all at a glance. Specific measurements may be forthcoming in any additional observations. Did not note the actual writing on the labels, also something to be considered. (Note to self: Bring a camera to properly catalog and look back over all details. And then figure out how to upload pictures into a matching data table…)

All 13 types of women’s stick deodorant contained 2.6 oz, while the 12 men’s stick deodorant ranged from 2.7-3.0 oz. (2.7 oz. in 9 types; 3.0 oz. in 3 types).  As far as price the average for women among these 13 was 4.65 ( $4.79 in 9 types, $3.99 in 3 types, $5.39 in 1 type) versus men’s average of  $4.24 among the 12 ($3.99 in 9 types, $4.79 in 2 types, and $5.39 in one type).

Cut the outlying $5.39 with 3.0 oz for men and the outlying $5.39 with 2.6 oz. for women — do the averages change?

Women’s average without the outlier is $4.59 for an average of 2.6 oz.
Men’s average without the outlier is $4.13 for an average of 2.75 oz.

Interesting. Considering these are all mixtures of 1) scented, 2) unscented, 3) ‘invisible’ -supposedly meaning no visible residual streaks of deodorant, and 4) ‘powdered’ – does leave a residue. These being the 4 major differences between all types of the stick deodorant, male and female target audiences, I wonder why there as much as a 46-cent disparity between what one target audience is charged and what another is charged. Where does the extra cost come from/what need is there for that extra cost in women’s Degree deodorant versus men’s? Is there an extra cost or is it just the strucutre of the raw and rough data presented above? Is the extra cost due to labels/label design? Containers/lids? The deodorants themselves? Marketing (commercials, advertisements, etc.)? Different prices in scents/fragrances added to each type of stick? Added chemicals/elements/ingredients in one versus the other? What are these deodorants made from? What are their containers made from? Their labels? IS it assumed that men use deodorant more/sweat more or use deodorant less/sweat less? Is it assumed that women use deodorant more/swear more or use less/sweat less?

It’s an interesting disparity. I wonder. I want to conduct a study of it and research it a bit more to see where this extra cost comes from.  And why. It’d be interesting to extend this study into other areas in which men and women’s grooming products differ — such as shampoo, conditioner, shaving cream, razors, aftershave/moisturizers/lotions, soap, etc. Does a disparity exist in those products as well?  But there are some items — such as food or mouthwash, which don’t seem to have a specific target audience beyond people at a broad and general level.  At the very least, this’ll keep my ass entertained.

Items which are gender-specific, such as tampons are simply interesting on a brand level and who is producing them/how they’re producing them.  It’s definitely a product which will not be taken off the shelves any time soon, barring the communal cease of the female population’s menstrual cycles. Which would be short-term awesome, but long-term awful. Especially for the species. Likewise, make-up products are also in their own category, designed for women. Though, for all the emo kids who need eyeliner, you do have to pay the same price for the same product.  Men’s make-up would be an interesting category. So would theatre make-up, if it’s any different from regular make-up.

Anywho. Nothing much more on the steady work front. Just rejection after rejection. If I ever write a book, I’ll be so set to take rejections, I might just frame them. After laughing. Ah well.

Here’s to another day. Ordinary. Plain. Simple. With just a dash of sun. I’m content.

Contrast

Whenever the sky is clear and black with an invisible moon, I run back and forth along the lawn with my radio antenna tuned to the stars. Every pass I make ends slower than the last as  I wrap myself in wires and fall into the wet grass, staring hard and listening harder to empty headphones.  I keep the antenna just under my arm, pretending Mercutio, and finally close my eyes.

What goes through my mind is this:

How my mother remembers my childhood — “Your sister took all our time, energy, and attention that we had nothing left for you. And it was unfair, but we didn’t know what else to do. She was always so angry… Her selective mutism…” — and how I didn’t particularly notice.  She told me about the two miscarriages she had. I remember she was sad then. How I was the curious girl who shoved a graham cracker into the VCR to see if it worked. How I locked myself in the office of my grandmother’s boss at two years old, ripping and flinging delicate client papers at their real-estate office downtown until the police came to bust the window just to get at the door. I hardly cried as a baby, toddler, child. How I protected and helped my sister even though she tried my patience, something which holds even still, oddly.

As for me, I remember my best childhood friend’s family most growing up when my third sister came along. Between those two and my parent’s working, it didn’t occur to me I was missing out on anything close. They came to sports games about a third of the time, relying on other parents to give me rides. Babysitters all the way up through the 5th or 6th grade. First an old family friend and then my aunt and cousins.  Absent? I don’t think I paid attention enough to notice. At the same time, parent’s felt like background noise to everything else distracting me.  Just one big shrug for a while when the youngest arrived in ’97. I did my own thing and ate my way through books. I was a usually happy, cloud-headed kid, barring one loathsome bitch-bully of a teacher and crippling shyness.  Now, most of my memories are merely events and pictures that happened, the feelings in them scraped away but for the most persistent marks.

The only drama in my mind is the recent. The stuff I’ve still yet to frame or let Time frame. Even then, I don’t feel the need to explain it often, the drama, the event, or the impact. Only to Meredith, who knows and understands and keeps me sane. She’s family by this point. Unless the emotions are strong, lurid, and clear with a certain measure of immediacy, I try and do just as she does: “Repress that shit.”

And then, I think about him, his back to me as I place my forehead between his shoulder blades, twining my feet between his and the sheets. Listening to hard times living on friendly charity, through Christmas tree divorces, middle school bullies, high school hell, and college memories, he’s still surprised he didn’t turn out for the worst. Teasing away the trauma from the theatrics with scalpel questions and probing words, I take the anecdotes with a hint of sugar and grit, but cup them with delicate fingers all the same.

Weekend in Review

Oakland, Sacramento, skydiving, and Doctor Who. A weekend well spent.

Hitched a ride with Meredith and her aunt down to Oakland. 12-13 hour drive with brief stops every couple hundred or so miles, but not terrible. Just really cramped from having to sit so long and stare out a window or pass out. I’m surprised I didn’t listen to music more. And as ever, reading is always out of the question. Must be stationary reading or no reading at all.

Either way, got down to Oakland and absolutely adored the sunshine. One of the wonderful things about Cali is the excess of sunshine. There’s more than enough and I could spend days on the front porch of my friend’s place. Hit up some garage sale warehouses with all their knick-knacks and brick-a-brack as well as a little second hand clothing store. Actual Cafe is a place I would love to hang out if such a place existed up here. Though, I’ll bet there’s more than a few in and around Wallingford and Capitol Hill. Probably the two places in which I might move, should I ever have a steady job. Longshoring is still slow and all the Casual IDs keep grabbing up jobs. Not sure about UnID Casuals — Terry’s been there twice everyday for the past 2-3 weeks and still hasn’t been out, at least as far as last Tuesday when I last went. Casuals will get all the work tonight since the ships were late, so I’ve better luck tomorrow morning. So my dad says.

Even in spite of not getting a job, the disappointment and frustration of it, everyone is pretty good-natured down at the Hall. It’s a cross your fingers and hold your breath type feel that gets everyone talking just to keep everyone from seizing up and shutting down. Most mornings have been going down with a book and sitting for about 30-45 minutes — up to an hour and a half on busy days — and then listening either to the intercom for that terse sentence: “All work’s gone” or waiting for the someone to pull up the slate-gray blinds to the office window that opens onto the rest of the warehouse.

See a lot of the same people day in and out. Even been seeing an old childhood friend from 15-16 years ago down there. It’s been interesting catching up. Six feet tall and always decked out in a biker’s jacket compared to the gangly, freckled boy I’d be chasing after up the stairs, the pair of us fleeing imaginary werewolves with water guns. Freckles are all still there, but it’s just so strange talking to him again.

But back to Cali. Oakland has a lot of character and as my friend says, “It’s still part of the real world” rather than Berkeley. Berkeley is “student land” and I can very much see that. Do have to share Fischer’s Point with the students though. Look out from where you park the car less than a dozen feet from a steep drop-off and you can’t see the whole of the Bay glittering out below. Golden Gate, Bay Bridge, San Francisco, Oakland, Berkeley — it’s dead fire city with the embers glowing orange and white. Beautiful. Can’t say I care for the beer any more up there than I do near sea-level.

And she’s a smoker now, my friend, Hailey. I’m not surprised, but at the same time, I’m not terribly interested. It’s not something I enjoy unless after a good, long night out on the town.  Too expensive of a habit. We all three of us went down to Sacremento, bouncing around a little tourist trap Western town. The best part about it was probably the costume store and spending hours in there, posing as pimps, gangsters, courtesans, and more. If any of us need a sexy outfit, we know where to go for next Halloween.

Bit of worry regarding Hailey’s ex. Ditches us to go smoke enough pot to bring on that time-old bad reaction he should know he can’t handle. Walks himself over to the local ER thinking he’s having a heart attack, calls my friend expecting her to come and take care of him or to guilt-worry her into it. She spent hours in worry over him, because taking it as a joke, as a write-off, she can’t do that — even though she knows it’s probably not serious. Finally, she called he conscience, Mary, and asked her what to do. Mary said he wasn’t her responsibility. Broken up, she can’t constantly mother him afterward. Even if she is the only person who has her shit together among their friends. But then it makes me wonder what his other girls did. He’s drunk himself so sick that even the hard-core Oaklanders had to call the hospital for him, seeing him wandering around screaming and shoeless and on the verge of black out. He’s ended up in the hospital for drinking himself into oblivion over a break up.

But everything turned out all right in the end. He’s fine. Just too much smoking and a lot of sulking, even though he knows he reacts badly to the effects.

And the evening wound to a finish with curry and rice at midnight; frozen berries poured into a glass alongside some Moscato to drink as we cooked. Cleaned the kitchen spotless, though, I think that’s mostly down to Meredith. She turned the stove from burnt out mess to brand new with enough soap and scrubbing. She could probably do that with anything, give her enough resources. Girl talk as we cooked and cleaned, girl talk as we headed to sleep and shared a bed between the three of us, limited floor-space as there was.

Wake up the next morning and work the new toaster we got for Hailey — after her crazy roommate who attacked her and caused trouble months before ran off with the cheapy $7 dollar one as petty revenge with two guys from LA — we’re on the road to Lodi and skydive.

Nerves and nervous laughter all around as we sign-up and sign away our rights. Some lanky, blond guy in a green-knit headband is just walking by and snickering at us the whole time and we don’t mind, it’s the quiet and shy kind of amusement rather than a brass and brag annoyance.  Once our numbers are called and we’re geared up and in the plane, there’s still that undercurrent of trembling as the instructor tells you how the jump procedure goes, how high the plane is, and at what point he’s going to pull the chute. I’m too busy repeating directions to myself and remembering the lesson about how if you’re not breathing it means you’re holding your breath.

We get up to altitude and then it’s a quick shuffling out the door with no time to think and now time to prepare as you’re shoved out the door and into a free-fall that takes flattens you in the air. Too busy trying to breathe and staring through watering eyes as the goggles flutter on your face. All you can think is exhale and inhale, exhale, inhale until you get those three taps on your arm the tells you to spread ‘em out from that mummified cross over your chest and the chute jerks you both up. From there on, you’re just floating. It’s cold and the wind burns over your face, the harness straps burning imprints into your hand when you squeeze so tight you’d don’t want to let go and your knuckles ache from the pressure of your own grip. I never screamed. There wasn’t any time to think about screaming. Plus I’m sure I would have swallowed a bug, if bus flew that high.

It’s a quite world beyond the whistling in your ears and the flap of fabric, and the view is amazing. Couldn’t stop grinning or laughing from the rush. What just happened with the freefall and the plane and the moments up to it didn’t compare with the worry of weather or not we could spiral down and catch up with my friends. Dizzying and exhilarating, you just float.

Hitting the warmer updrafts, the ground pulls back and the sky seems to suck you up briefly, until another pocket of cooler air blows over hands and face. And the landing is soft and simple and you’re surprised you can still stand.

None of us could stop grinning afterward.

Love, love, love the start of the new season of DW.  This is more what I would have expected of Season 5 with the transition. Now, it feels more like a prelude to Season 6, but then, it probably works better that way in some aspects. The introduction of a new host of characters (or permutations thereof) via personal conflicts as well as greater plot-related conflicts; setting up the Silence/River Song/TARDIS destruction/Universe blowing up; introducing and re-introducing some overarching themes in DW. I admit, while Season 5 was fun, it didn’t leave me especially thrilled in anticipation of the next episode or even leave as heavy an imprint as a whole series versus individual episodes such as Vincent and the Doctor or The Eleventh Hour.

DW

Horribly excited by the new, full-length Doctor Who trailer for series 6. Though I’m just placing this here as a note, something of a gamble. I feel stupid even pondering this aloud on the Internets, but I don’t particularly care.

Given the fairytale tone set up in season 5 and the monsters tone of season 6, I’m wondering if a Peter Pan-esque episode will crop up at some point. The story itself is iconic in as far as childhood and fairytales go, particularly with relation to the UK. More than a couple statues of Peter appear in both England and Scotland, I understand. I could definitely see someone like Moffat picking that up and twisting it into something darker and Doctor Who-esque, especially since I can’t find anything (within immediate reach or Google) that shows the pair have been correlated in any of the past series. Far-fetched, yeah.

In as far as what set this idea off, well, I know I shouldn’t take any leads from pirate-y looking ships in full-length trailers, but hey, here’s to a random card in the ring. And if Moffat doesn’t take up on the idea, perhaps someone else will. I hope so.

And what better day to make a silly prediction than April 1st.

To be Perfectly Honest?

I’m terrified.

That I will not be able to find some form of employment by the time my bank account rounds out to a nice flat-line zero.

That I will fail the lashing test which is part of the gateway to an industry which could keep me in some form of financial stability.

That I am slowly becoming depressed, incapable of waking myself before noon with no incentive or discipline, finding it so much easier to fall back into dreamless oblivion.

That I will not be able to keep up with the bills.

That I will be unable to spoil/do things/go places with the people I want in my life. That I will be unable to reciprocate.

That I am a failure.

That I do not have control over my life the way I want to and being a spoiled little brat for demanding the conditions be just so before I feel that I do.

To be told, that I have no focus or drive — a problem I, myself, acknowledge fully and completely as something which I do not know how to deal with alone — and yet, offered not the slightest help or direction for not automatically assuming ‘more discipline’ in my life. It hurts. It’s a character flaw, my lack of discipline or drive. And I have no idea what to do about it.

When I have a job or responsibility or something to which I can wake up and apply myself toward, I can be a damned excellent worker. Without it, drifting, I can’t bring myself to so much as take a breath to breathe.

All these things are eating me away and I am terrified.  I can’t sleep.

Your 5AM Broadcast!

And so I wonder at what point am I permitted to go absolutely batshit insane and start my eternal diatribe against everything from humanity to blown pupils to an early morning breakfast of cinnamon sugar toast? And most importantly, will I feel better for the attempt to show people the insides of me? Individual, yes, and so completely alone but for the mirrors and windows on the walls of this otherwise empty house.

If I can’t hear you, it’s because I’m trying to smash my eardrums again. Living in silence suits well with this taped up old mouth of mine. But the pictures keep on sliding, sharp and clear as ever.

If This is Spring, I’d Hate to Catch Winter in a Coat

I remember the icy days at Greenwich, the Queen’s House designed by Inigo Jones and later added to by Sir Christopher Wren. I remember the walk up to the observatory, hearing Professor Goldroid talk about the park and how it used to be the King’s old hunting grounds. I remember the pair of golden retrievers everyone fawned over when they saw them both, side by side, carrying a big stick between them in their jaws. In my mind, I listen to greyhounds bay. I am probably wrong about the greyhounds.

I remember the cold and the drizzle as Maria bit into her sandwich, peering around while Goldroid talked, dry and sharp by comparison. I remember the walk through Flamsteed House, the creek of the floorboards, the dimly lit displays meant to mimic the original lay of the house with all its trappings. I forget if it was a ballroom, it may have been a sitting room even, but I pressed my hands to the white-washed radiators, closed my eyes and let the warmth sooth away the icy splinters wedged deep beneath my skin. The eight-fold oak paneling of the room only just caught by my eye, with Goldroid pointing it in a passing mumble. A lovely place full of light from every side it seemed.

I can count my fingers and toes the number of classmates who straddled the Prime Meridian, smiling and guffawing as I stared at the ground, observing degrees of latitude, degrees of longitude, and the stopwatch of the world. Red numbers flashed and flickered on a black board blinked. I tried taking pictures through round brass astrolabes  in the garden but the focus was never quite right. I trailed after the folk trying to catch the camera obscura but the light overpowered it all.  Down below in the cavity cave of that house it’s the Temple of Time made real with all its gears, springs, cogs, and barrels. Such quaint contraptions layered beneath glass.

She shrieks when she finds a plush rabbit, thinking it dead and stuff, and laughs at such a crude mistake. Joel takes it up and runs with the idea, never laying a finger on the small toy hiding inside its cubby hole. And we all trickle out to scatter on the ice and the wind.

Down to the Trafalgar Tavern where the people say Charles Dickens once frequented. And I think it funny, trailing after classmates and listening in on conversations about Blackadder and Black Books, that of all the things people could put down about a man, it is the pubs he favoured most. A fine balance between myth and fact, or so it seems to me. The sidewalks were narrow, I remember. The sidewalks were narrow and chipped and fractured like bad bones.

It’s a petrol station trip and a cup of cocoa later that we all find ourselves on the walkway, gravel, staring at a block of a home decorated by airy wings. It’s a few jokes here and there, some recall remark about tardy students, and then on to the right flank and up the steps. We pause, still chill, still hopping up and down in our boots for the warmth of movement and dance. Great sweeping gestures, great sweeping speeches and we stare down open-air walkways which look like two mirrors reflecting into one another for an eternity. I’m last to leave, last to get a lonely picture of the horses prancing in with their well-oiled carriages, last to think about the echoes bound within all that paint and stone.

Inside that narrow twinge of claustrophobia goes off, but I follow and wonder about people who lived like moles here. No complaints, merely questions. We traipse through room after room, finding wood panels, carpet panels, rug panels, panels of carved pea pods. Open to signal the artist’s payment, closed for impending commission. I espy suits of armor and giggle at their blue polished joints. Or so we are told. Cameras are not allowed, we are reminded, by the indiscretions of classmates with forgotten flashes. The walls appear real, but smooth and flat to the touch despite their contrived inches and niches and knives. Somehow it all blends together in a spiral staircase winding through the roof in black and white.

Soon after we find ourselves out and about, trekking round to the military academy and cathedral after paying special attention to the paired towers of impish Wren. One holds a clock, the other, we think, a compass.

She’s stolen a fold-out soot chair straight from the fireplace of the Queen’s house and we spin by a fishing fountain and gawk at the gargoyle carp who has called it home for decades. Their eyes are large and rocky and immobile, tails made for umbrellas above their heads.

We end up in the university and we explore. Pose by a cardboard cut-out of a painted man, the clone stripped from the wall of the original. My roomie and Sadie bend their knees and smile. It’s a great hall and I wonder over half-imagined speeches, half-forgotten purposes. And soon enough we end up watching a Latin Mass in the church next door. Times like that, all the choir spread in scarlet, I think religion isn’t so bad while I mouth the prayers of which I share no belief or hope. But in the evanescence of the moment, it’s a perfect microcosm of beauty all on its own. One or two people decorate the pews with a third nestled in the back.

“You’ve witnessed the same ritual that has been occurring for over five hundred years. Not a word of the service in Latin altered, merely added to for the layman.” says Goldroid. When we leave, there’s peace and quiet in my stuttering heart, if not my mind. If nothing else, at least I have that.

And soon enough, we’re traipsing a tunnel just beneath the Thames and it’s cold but there’s no wind, and we feel the weight of so many tons of water hunching over our heads.

Harlequin City

I leave a hand-print or a broken shoelace and the city just picks them out from between its steel teeth. Swallowed moments, stolen kisses.

I remember how the white bricks towered and the windows stared as my feet took me in and out of Bloomsbury’s labyrinth, all the while looking for that little garden cloistered behind a side street strung with fireflies, violet and blue. The one I twirled round on center-stage, drunk and dizzy on the moon, the stars and the lights.

Upstairs, downstairs, through the back door of my spine, third vertebrae above the kidneys — that city played my heartstrings. Plucked and strummed and tuned fancy ideas into dreams without so much as a lifted finger.  And ate. Ate the heartstrings, ate the ventricles, ate the veins, and ate all of it. All.  And here I am, empty-chested. Empty-eyed but for the slideshow on my retinas. It’s a soul-deep ache, even while I’m staring out at black Seattle towers, watching green sift into red and back again.  Mine is not the city I watch through white-iron grates outside his apartment. It’s not the one I see over empty wine bottles and dried roses, even when the days are clear and clean and the mountains peer out from behind their clouds.

It’s always been an older sibling, older sister; distant and cool, with gift-wrapped wonders. Home, but never more than a familiar hand with which I might entwine mine. The dirt and grunge speak of garage bands while the skyscrapers whisper glass and metal and plaster-slathered brick rather than ghost speech.  And little by little I discover its secrets, told in good time, “for when you’re old enough to understand.”

Mine is not the city I watch through white-iron grates outside his apartment.

~~~

Bah. Rubbish.