Guacamole
By Alexander Slotnick
Damn, that lady had big boots. Boobs. No not those. Those words, boots and boobs, are, like, the same thing. Almost, I mean. Gotta watch out with those words; with words like that, you can get into some serious, traumatizing trouble. But this lady, she had big boots. I watched her walk out, clipping away at linoleum panels on the floor, leaving an ethereal trail of fire red at ankle height. From behind the counter, I watched her exit through the front door, out into the sun with those big big boots pulling her forward.
“Burrito. No guac.” Huh? Oh Jesus, here we go.
“I’m sorry, what?” I said.
“I said Burrito. No GUAC.” This customer was also wearing boots, but they were brown. They were also crusty and dirty and worn, cracked like the lines on this little man’s face. He was shoulder height, but he also was laden with thick, experienced muscle. He thrust his gums as he spoke, and sneered with the corner of his lips. A camouflage vest adorned his otherwise bare shoulders and chest. It had a patch that said LAD. There were thick growths of hair on his exposed skin where boughs of white protruded from otherwise dark twisted canopies. The hair on his head was bunched into sprouts and fountains along the sides where he apparently thought it prudent and fashionable to make a dozen miniature ponytails. What? Was that a pink hair tie? It appeared he had survived one war to now start his own.
“As in, guacamole?”
“Son, I will not repeat myself,” said Lad.
“Yes sir. But what kind of burrito? I mean, there’s chicken and beef and por--“
“EVERYTHING BUT THE GODDAMN GUAC, YOU TWAT!” Lad thrust his fists into the air and pulled them apart and down to his sides like he was taking off.
“Okay, okay, jeez, hold on.” I considered asking if he wanted a Super Amigo Friend Power Meal but decided against it. Lad knew what he wanted. I touched the screen to punch in his order. Eight ninety-five was the cost, and I told him so. He gave me a ten. His hand brushed mine as he passed the bill, and I believe a flake of dried skin caught a draft from an open door and fluttered up my sleeve. I didn’t suppress a shudder, and Lad noticed and grunted. I redeemed myself with a smile as I punched in his payment to the register. The register popped open to where it hit my stomach and stopped, gaping, apparently hungry.
There was no money in the drawer. At first I considered this no more than an anomaly: what had happened to the twenty-two fifty that the boot lady had just spent? Then, it became an obstacle: it sure will be difficult to pay Laddy boy his change with no money to do so with. I considered the second revelation for a moment and then decided the situation had reached crisis level: wow, it sure will be hard to pay Laddy boy his change and then survive the ensuing accusations, violence, and eventual law suits with no money to do so. My brain popped, maybe.
“There a problem with my order?”
“Uhhhh. Drawer’s stuck.” I slammed it back in with my elbow. He didn’t notice. “Lemme go get a wrench.”
“A wrench?”
“Yeah, there’s a tight nut that keeps on getting, well, stuck… or um something? Too tight I suppose?”
“You’re a dumbass, son,” said Lad.
“Thank you sir, one moment please.” Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod of course there was no wrench or tight nut or-- I tripped over something in my panic as I turned around, towards the kitchen. A backpack? Why was it at my feet? It had my name on it on a tag! I grabbed it and ran through the heavy doors that led away from Lad. I found a corner in the kitchen, next to a fryer where I could properly brood and cower. There was a round orange crust on the wall in front of me. I stared at it, and something, maybe newfound dementia, made me stick out my tongue and lean towards it. It was a lovely color, bright, and it wiggled a little. What would it taste like…? NO. I cannot let miniscule quandaries stand in the way of the preservation of my life.
Should I actually find a wrench? No, I don’t even know if there was one at the restaurant. Also, once I found it, I’d kinda be at a loss. I put the backpack up on the edge of the fryer. It was a nice yellow color, contrasted with a solid black stripe. Like a bumble bee. It buzzed as I unzipped it.
Wow, that’s a lot of cash. Hm. I don’t remember having that much money. Not today, at least. HOLY SHIT WHY’S IT IN A BAG WITH MY NAME ON IT? AM I A CRIMINAL? AND EVEN IF I AM, AM I AN IDIOT? I drooled a bit as my face went slack. I zipped it back up. Somebody was trying to frame me. I opened a side pocket. I found a folded sheet of paper. I unfolded it to see a scribbled drawing of a lady in big boots. Yep, that was my handwriting at the bottom where I’d signed my name.
Deeper I found a lighter. And then a twisted spoon with burn marks on its underside. Ridiculous. There were pills too. Somebody was really trying to pull my leg. At this point I heard some shouting from the front of the restaurant where Lad must have finally lost his patience. In a reflection in a clean spot on the metal of the fryer, I saw my manager run behind me, headed to the front. Ok, ok, ok.
With no options left, I took a pill. In seconds, everything became clear. I had epiphany after epiphany. I took some of the fryer’s oil and threw it on the walls. I found more in storage and spilled it on the floor. I took a five-dollar bill from the bag and lit it ablaze with the lighter. I dumped the rest of the money in a pile. And I dropped my torch on the floor as I went out the back to the parking lot.
Outside, I found an abandoned bike. I got onto it and pedaled until I was home.
***
When I was arrested that night, I learned that I had stolen only forty-seven dollars. Of that, I had managed to burn five, the five I lit myself. Just after I had left, my manager came back through the kitchen and saw a burning, harmless five dollar bill lying on the floor, a pile of more money, some oil flung about, and a backpack with my name on it. He stomped the fire out with his foot. I don’t think Lad ever got his burrito though. Good, he was a dick.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Seven
My alarm sounded early enough for me to catch the train. First, I intended to rendezvous with acquaintances better briefed than I but soon found all direction abandoned and all reckless abandonment in a hopeless direction. An informant (I found him queued for breakfast) helped me establish a new contact, and I left common grounds for a morning of exploration. Nothing of circumstance came to pass, and I returned to my dorm at 11. Under florescent lights, I knocked on the ordained door, but nobody answered, and, still, I was alone. The moment of action was upon me and considering the morning’s display of bad vibrations and mahogany karma, I elected independence.
The station was in an underground layer, the arterial insides of the otherwise uplifted city. The trains were easy, easy, even sluttish in convenience. I waited at the gate and then boarded. I relaxed in my seat and put my legs forward to rest on the seat in front of me. I leaned back, comfortable.
The train left the station on time, punctual to the point of fascism. It strolled between hills. The lull of the tracks was like a tide, and I could see sea birds in the green fields out my window. I soon fell asleep to the nodding of the chug.
As I awoke, I felt doped, sluggish. I was probably sleep deprived, and the small excursion into REM was a tease to my weary mind. I was in North Berwick. Other tourists crowded around me checking return train times. Everybody was pleased to see that there were departures every twenty minutes. With no set deadline, I took my time exploring.
My primary objective was the site of the highland games. However, when I saw the beach, I couldn’t help myself. I walked up a hill, trotting on a dirt path sitting between lines of tall grass. All about me were locals with small sailboats, basking in the sun. In the water ahead were many more of these boats and mariners.
On the beach itself were specks of people, running among the strewn seaweed and rocks. There was a dock on the right that wrapped around to the front of the beach where it could look back upon itself and coil between the mountainous protrusions in the water further out.
When I eventually left the beach, I made my was to the highland games where I found a din of bagpipes and snare drums. The way the pipers were rehearsing in the shadow of a football goalpost reminded me of marching band, and I shuddered. Their uniforms were infinitely cooler though, consisting of kilts, and that went a long way in terms of redemption.
Big men threw big metal and wood. It was neat.
And this is neither poetic license nor some fantastical, delusional wish-- this guy’s name was actually David Bowie:
Exhaustion found me again, so I returned to the train station and soon was aboard, going home. I again couldn’t maintain consciousness. Under the late afternoon sun, I napped.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Six
A poem that owes itself to the guidance of Sinead Morrissey and the form of Elizabeth Bishop:
The Closet
By Alexander Slotnick
The door’s ajar, and how corporeal these photons are.
Golden, asthmatic air of the gloaming swirls and tornadoes,
and the jackets are hung, the leather’s scent dripped as candle wax.
Moaning, rather than hearing moans
the closet door trembles as it shuts.
The violet shirt on its hanger is denied its light and hue.
The carpet, gray, visible via the gap at the floor,
lets the floodlight in; worms of string and beetle-shaped clumps
spin at the breaths of the living
in rhythmic triplets, rushed, Mahler’s funeral march.
Armholes in the wardrobe like tunnels,
what bodies have you known?
Who pulled you on and off, to be neglected on the floor
in fits of passion, exhaustion, skintight rage?
But now, you’re left in a pact and equanimity, neat and clean,
smooth and soft and supercharged when the sun did shine.
The shelf above: board games whose pieces
tumble like bottles of broken glass,
in boxes made of stiff cardboard but torn
weary at the hands of years and grandparenting.
Rubber bands keep these closed, torn themselves,
stretched thin and translucent, cellular walls of pinned up skin.
A scarf coils on the floor, fringes spread in anticipation
years left to wither away, threads undone by the quiet wind
that blows under the portal, through the bedroom, hall
when the air’s let in through the garden door.
In the closet, voices, once resonant and jolly, and music that played
mumbles clumsy and hardly through, barely at all.
And from without, the voices in the closet, the singing
Arias Bel Canto, fanfares, a cerulean dirge
are muted ringing, and then are silence and clandestine conversations,
in the closet, hardly, barely at all.
The Closet
By Alexander Slotnick
The door’s ajar, and how corporeal these photons are.
Golden, asthmatic air of the gloaming swirls and tornadoes,
and the jackets are hung, the leather’s scent dripped as candle wax.
Moaning, rather than hearing moans
the closet door trembles as it shuts.
The violet shirt on its hanger is denied its light and hue.
The carpet, gray, visible via the gap at the floor,
lets the floodlight in; worms of string and beetle-shaped clumps
spin at the breaths of the living
in rhythmic triplets, rushed, Mahler’s funeral march.
Armholes in the wardrobe like tunnels,
what bodies have you known?
Who pulled you on and off, to be neglected on the floor
in fits of passion, exhaustion, skintight rage?
But now, you’re left in a pact and equanimity, neat and clean,
smooth and soft and supercharged when the sun did shine.
The shelf above: board games whose pieces
tumble like bottles of broken glass,
in boxes made of stiff cardboard but torn
weary at the hands of years and grandparenting.
Rubber bands keep these closed, torn themselves,
stretched thin and translucent, cellular walls of pinned up skin.
A scarf coils on the floor, fringes spread in anticipation
years left to wither away, threads undone by the quiet wind
that blows under the portal, through the bedroom, hall
when the air’s let in through the garden door.
In the closet, voices, once resonant and jolly, and music that played
mumbles clumsy and hardly through, barely at all.
And from without, the voices in the closet, the singing
Arias Bel Canto, fanfares, a cerulean dirge
are muted ringing, and then are silence and clandestine conversations,
in the closet, hardly, barely at all.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Five
Creation Story
By Alexander Slotnick
I walked among shells and insect husks. They scattered with my steps and skipped across the cement floor and spun and sometimes shattered. They were bountiful. The ones that I caught underfoot exploded and crackled and made my spine twitch with the sensation of their resistance. They could not be avoided, however; there were simply too many for the Metro staff to clean up this far uptown. The abundance of dead things-- rats and mice and unholy beasts-- provided easy food, and the dark corners provided safe nooks for safe nests. They cleaned the flesh from the bones and cast their wicked cloaks from their shoulders as they grew. And then they hid in the dark corners underground, only leaving their skins and the imprints of their ghosts. I walked in the sea of their disposal and left a wide wake.
The stairs were long and the depths deep. I descended below 175th street and left the dark night above for the timeless purgatory below. I wished for a flask because I’ve heard they help. I practiced exorcisms in my head and recited incantations to burn witches at will. The pressures of drowning came crashing down at the bottom of the steps, where, between rust on the plating at the base of the wall and a layer of bloody vomit, I stepped. I prayed for a speedy arrival, for a safe delivery. A train roars in the distance and then disappears. The tunnel glistens where water’s pooled. There’s gout between tiles and piles of shit. Please Lord, take me home.
The lights flickered above as I stood on the edge of the tracks. They had no apparent consistency to their rhythm and would sometimes flash with such intensity and such speed that they had the effect of a strobe. When this happened I felt frantic, and I had the subtle urge to turn my eyes towards them. I fought to keep my chin level. Other times, they would shut off altogether. These times, in the Metro station, I felt cold and alone. What negligence allowed such vast twilight to ensue? What was abandoned here? During one especially long blackout, I coughed and heard the blind echo reverberate away from me, resonate in the infinite distance of the darkness, and then become complete silence. I knew of no living thing to hear me, and the emptiness became solid and whole, and the station was a void.
After several moments of the silence, there was the sound of soft metal freezing, breaking, and, back from the direction that the echo drifted, came an icy wind that washed over me. I drew my white, starched collar up to my chin, pulled in my robes, and crossed my arms so that my bible was over my heart.
The lights came back on with a crack and a blue spark and immediately began their distracted flashing. What was there? Down the track, and I looked hard to see it, stood a figure. It was alone, and its outline blurred. And though I could not see a face, its head was turned towards me. It was already looking at me with its shoulders squared. It stared. I stared back. Between a high drawn overcoat and a low drawn hat, I could make out no eyes. Its hands were lined with leather gloves. If it had skin, I could see none. If it didn’t, I would not have been surprised. It was in his distance, and his blatant staring, that forced my hand to my mouth. I gasped and with my breath the lights were out again.
I fought to keep my position, the tracks on my left, stairs far to my right. I waited in the dark.
Lightness, and the figure was closer. Despite the florescence it still wore a veil that swallowed and smothered any illumination. Perhaps I soiled myself? Now its outline was definite. It made no movement and continued its deep, eyeless stare of intent. I made involuntary excursions with my mind, to the stories of blackness and lightness, and thought how unfair was the persistence of evil even in the light. I tried to talk but my tongue turned to Babel. I tried to touch but my hands turned to salt. I tried to hear but locusts swarmed my ears. I tried to make love but I didn’t know how. I tried to fuck but I was circumcised beyond repair. So I begged for mercy with my eyes and forsake my God in an Inquisition, under The Question of this blank man. Darkness again.
Lightness again. It was closer, upon me now, a mountain tall. It tilted back its head and the veil lifted. I approached him with one hand forward and fingers spread. My skin stretched between them, webbed, stained with ink, thin and pale. I had a paper cut between the second and third fingers of the hand. Under its cap, I saw shapes form. Darkness. Then a pointed finger, a single jeweled ring. Darkness. The bark of a willow, a branch. Darkness. A sword. Darkness. A tower and crumbling. Darkness. Rifles and then a gas mask. Darkness. And then vines receding into the gaping face, laced amongst themselves. They bloomed, wilted, and died.
Darkness and then the face was pierced by the image of a missile, a warhead. Darkness and then a flash of light. The bazooka face was a whiteout. The explosion threw me out into complete disorientation. I saw only the figure and the light. The blankness receded around him. As my vision returned, with spots on the peripheral, the whiteness disappeared to reveal the tunnel and station cleansed. There was overwhelming growth and flowers covering the walls and floor. The husks were gone as were the stains and litter. He stood still and erect, hands ever at his sides. For the first time, the lights held steady.
The missile still sat pointed from the center of his face, having erupted. It emerged between the hat and coat. Finally, its shell fell away-- first the top half and then the bottom. Within, there was a solid, corporeal phallus. I stared at the vulgarity situated amongst the beauty of the garden that had formed. Birds flew beside my ears. Down at my feet was thick grass, cushions. Likelihood made me sway. Yachts of grandeur towards the sun. Velvet voices sing jazz choirs. Organs puff out air music and smoke and boilers let out steam. The pressure returns but from below, forcing him upwards to the sky and branches. Looking down, the phallus is mine now, mine. I land on a patch of earth and find the dirt conjure itself into the shape of a naked, fertile woman. You stand before me and I shove you down with two hands. I stumble and follow. I wrap myself around you with my arms. You wrap your legs around my waist, and I found myself deep, inside. We’re vibrating now. We’re wallowing in the grass and licking our lips. We’re next to a tree and we’re building up an ozone layer. We’re turning back time, sinking back into the primordial ooze. We’re making fire and heat. The dirt body wraps the flesh one and pulls it inside. Insulated and suffocated now, the priest, we are the seed. Grow up, grow up, grow up, let’s plant a seed. We land on the tracks, buried so deep. And there’s a light in the distance. It’s coming closer. Closer now. There it is. Pulling out of the tunnel. It only took a moment to create. All returns to normal. I lay in husks and puddles. It was too late for the driver to brake and impossible for him to swerve.
By Alexander Slotnick
I walked among shells and insect husks. They scattered with my steps and skipped across the cement floor and spun and sometimes shattered. They were bountiful. The ones that I caught underfoot exploded and crackled and made my spine twitch with the sensation of their resistance. They could not be avoided, however; there were simply too many for the Metro staff to clean up this far uptown. The abundance of dead things-- rats and mice and unholy beasts-- provided easy food, and the dark corners provided safe nooks for safe nests. They cleaned the flesh from the bones and cast their wicked cloaks from their shoulders as they grew. And then they hid in the dark corners underground, only leaving their skins and the imprints of their ghosts. I walked in the sea of their disposal and left a wide wake.
The stairs were long and the depths deep. I descended below 175th street and left the dark night above for the timeless purgatory below. I wished for a flask because I’ve heard they help. I practiced exorcisms in my head and recited incantations to burn witches at will. The pressures of drowning came crashing down at the bottom of the steps, where, between rust on the plating at the base of the wall and a layer of bloody vomit, I stepped. I prayed for a speedy arrival, for a safe delivery. A train roars in the distance and then disappears. The tunnel glistens where water’s pooled. There’s gout between tiles and piles of shit. Please Lord, take me home.
The lights flickered above as I stood on the edge of the tracks. They had no apparent consistency to their rhythm and would sometimes flash with such intensity and such speed that they had the effect of a strobe. When this happened I felt frantic, and I had the subtle urge to turn my eyes towards them. I fought to keep my chin level. Other times, they would shut off altogether. These times, in the Metro station, I felt cold and alone. What negligence allowed such vast twilight to ensue? What was abandoned here? During one especially long blackout, I coughed and heard the blind echo reverberate away from me, resonate in the infinite distance of the darkness, and then become complete silence. I knew of no living thing to hear me, and the emptiness became solid and whole, and the station was a void.
After several moments of the silence, there was the sound of soft metal freezing, breaking, and, back from the direction that the echo drifted, came an icy wind that washed over me. I drew my white, starched collar up to my chin, pulled in my robes, and crossed my arms so that my bible was over my heart.
The lights came back on with a crack and a blue spark and immediately began their distracted flashing. What was there? Down the track, and I looked hard to see it, stood a figure. It was alone, and its outline blurred. And though I could not see a face, its head was turned towards me. It was already looking at me with its shoulders squared. It stared. I stared back. Between a high drawn overcoat and a low drawn hat, I could make out no eyes. Its hands were lined with leather gloves. If it had skin, I could see none. If it didn’t, I would not have been surprised. It was in his distance, and his blatant staring, that forced my hand to my mouth. I gasped and with my breath the lights were out again.
I fought to keep my position, the tracks on my left, stairs far to my right. I waited in the dark.
Lightness, and the figure was closer. Despite the florescence it still wore a veil that swallowed and smothered any illumination. Perhaps I soiled myself? Now its outline was definite. It made no movement and continued its deep, eyeless stare of intent. I made involuntary excursions with my mind, to the stories of blackness and lightness, and thought how unfair was the persistence of evil even in the light. I tried to talk but my tongue turned to Babel. I tried to touch but my hands turned to salt. I tried to hear but locusts swarmed my ears. I tried to make love but I didn’t know how. I tried to fuck but I was circumcised beyond repair. So I begged for mercy with my eyes and forsake my God in an Inquisition, under The Question of this blank man. Darkness again.
Lightness again. It was closer, upon me now, a mountain tall. It tilted back its head and the veil lifted. I approached him with one hand forward and fingers spread. My skin stretched between them, webbed, stained with ink, thin and pale. I had a paper cut between the second and third fingers of the hand. Under its cap, I saw shapes form. Darkness. Then a pointed finger, a single jeweled ring. Darkness. The bark of a willow, a branch. Darkness. A sword. Darkness. A tower and crumbling. Darkness. Rifles and then a gas mask. Darkness. And then vines receding into the gaping face, laced amongst themselves. They bloomed, wilted, and died.
Darkness and then the face was pierced by the image of a missile, a warhead. Darkness and then a flash of light. The bazooka face was a whiteout. The explosion threw me out into complete disorientation. I saw only the figure and the light. The blankness receded around him. As my vision returned, with spots on the peripheral, the whiteness disappeared to reveal the tunnel and station cleansed. There was overwhelming growth and flowers covering the walls and floor. The husks were gone as were the stains and litter. He stood still and erect, hands ever at his sides. For the first time, the lights held steady.
The missile still sat pointed from the center of his face, having erupted. It emerged between the hat and coat. Finally, its shell fell away-- first the top half and then the bottom. Within, there was a solid, corporeal phallus. I stared at the vulgarity situated amongst the beauty of the garden that had formed. Birds flew beside my ears. Down at my feet was thick grass, cushions. Likelihood made me sway. Yachts of grandeur towards the sun. Velvet voices sing jazz choirs. Organs puff out air music and smoke and boilers let out steam. The pressure returns but from below, forcing him upwards to the sky and branches. Looking down, the phallus is mine now, mine. I land on a patch of earth and find the dirt conjure itself into the shape of a naked, fertile woman. You stand before me and I shove you down with two hands. I stumble and follow. I wrap myself around you with my arms. You wrap your legs around my waist, and I found myself deep, inside. We’re vibrating now. We’re wallowing in the grass and licking our lips. We’re next to a tree and we’re building up an ozone layer. We’re turning back time, sinking back into the primordial ooze. We’re making fire and heat. The dirt body wraps the flesh one and pulls it inside. Insulated and suffocated now, the priest, we are the seed. Grow up, grow up, grow up, let’s plant a seed. We land on the tracks, buried so deep. And there’s a light in the distance. It’s coming closer. Closer now. There it is. Pulling out of the tunnel. It only took a moment to create. All returns to normal. I lay in husks and puddles. It was too late for the driver to brake and impossible for him to swerve.
Friday, August 3, 2007
Four
The bus smelled of sweat and candy. Back at Princes street, I got off, and, instead of boarding another, I headed east. Boys with jerseys and loose shorts swayed in front of me.
“Alright to take it home?”
“Well I suppose so-- my mother won’t care.”
“If she doesn’t care let’s not go back yet.”
“What instead?”
“There’s a lass I saw. And some shoes. Let’s not go back yet, aye?”
“Right, right. I saw those shoes. The one’s with the black lines. And red. It was the red that made them.”
“Aye, the red.”
“Do you have enough to buy them?”
“Maybe, I don’t know.”
“Is it worth it to check?”
“Well, if I do, it may be. I’m thirsty too.”
“And hungry?”
“And hungry too.”
“I have no more money though.”
“What’d you do with it all?”
“I had not much to begin with, remember?”
“Ah, aye.”
“Not home to our mothers?”
“Nay, aye. Not yet.”
I soon came to a graveyard and steps ascending.
There were graves at all levels, above and below, for the earth was unsteady and the yard upon a hill. They were old headstones. 19th century and cracked and molded. They were generally traditional if not shattered or otherwise faded. Further back there was a roofless gallery running against the gate, with walls of cracked and open stone. Every few meters these walls opened to little empty rooms and tiny patches of grass upon the floor. The graves were private. I wondered if the walls extended underground: to give their occupants the solitude implied above. I dismissed the quandary immediately as irrelevant, as I do for most subterranean moral issues. The walls were for the weepers and the wailers and the widowers, to protect them from the wind.
From the graveyard, I found Edinburgh’s acropolis. There were more steps here, and they were steeper. Soon, the steps became a hill with a slope. By this time, the day was bright and the day was hot, and lightness of elation was nearly corrupted by lightness of heat. Nearly! In especially bright patches, where the sun fought through boughs overhanging, I saw swarming black clouds of tiny flying insects, who stormed my eyes and orifices. I swallowed a few as was inevitable. I rushed through and tried not to breathe. I sweated, nearly drowned! Nearly! I soon found myself at the peak through the help of the lift of all the furious flapping wings in my chest.
Here was Edinburgh.
I sat between the pillars and watched sunbathers and bellydancers. Anywhere there was green, and beyond the green there was refined blacks and browns, and one direction blue, and in the other more green still. There was yellow in some blooming, and red in others. I could have lit a match and melted the world into stained glass. I could have melted it into Monet. I saw Arthur’s seat like a target. My view stretched from acropolis to throne, like reverse democracy. It was the American devolution.
I had no idea how to get to Holyrood park, where I would walk over the hill and find myself home. But directions are a funny thing-- usually it helps to walk in the direction you’re facing, especially if you’re facing where you want to go. Streets complicated the matter slightly, as they can. I found myself on a road perpendicular to the hill, but I cut through a forested park and came out under a bridge. It was mostly decayed and graphitized. I passed through it, lost, disoriented. There was a bus stop I considered staying at for I still had my day pass. But I soon saw the Holyrood Royal Palace and the hill behind it. I sat to rest at a strange, industrial, miniature set of tributaries. I considered dipping my feet, playing a giant, but decided to delay the Herculean sensation for a few minutes more.
And then I pushed off and was at the top. And I felt big.
“Alright to take it home?”
“Well I suppose so-- my mother won’t care.”
“If she doesn’t care let’s not go back yet.”
“What instead?”
“There’s a lass I saw. And some shoes. Let’s not go back yet, aye?”
“Right, right. I saw those shoes. The one’s with the black lines. And red. It was the red that made them.”
“Aye, the red.”
“Do you have enough to buy them?”
“Maybe, I don’t know.”
“Is it worth it to check?”
“Well, if I do, it may be. I’m thirsty too.”
“And hungry?”
“And hungry too.”
“I have no more money though.”
“What’d you do with it all?”
“I had not much to begin with, remember?”
“Ah, aye.”
“Not home to our mothers?”
“Nay, aye. Not yet.”
I soon came to a graveyard and steps ascending.
There were graves at all levels, above and below, for the earth was unsteady and the yard upon a hill. They were old headstones. 19th century and cracked and molded. They were generally traditional if not shattered or otherwise faded. Further back there was a roofless gallery running against the gate, with walls of cracked and open stone. Every few meters these walls opened to little empty rooms and tiny patches of grass upon the floor. The graves were private. I wondered if the walls extended underground: to give their occupants the solitude implied above. I dismissed the quandary immediately as irrelevant, as I do for most subterranean moral issues. The walls were for the weepers and the wailers and the widowers, to protect them from the wind.
From the graveyard, I found Edinburgh’s acropolis. There were more steps here, and they were steeper. Soon, the steps became a hill with a slope. By this time, the day was bright and the day was hot, and lightness of elation was nearly corrupted by lightness of heat. Nearly! In especially bright patches, where the sun fought through boughs overhanging, I saw swarming black clouds of tiny flying insects, who stormed my eyes and orifices. I swallowed a few as was inevitable. I rushed through and tried not to breathe. I sweated, nearly drowned! Nearly! I soon found myself at the peak through the help of the lift of all the furious flapping wings in my chest.
Here was Edinburgh.
I sat between the pillars and watched sunbathers and bellydancers. Anywhere there was green, and beyond the green there was refined blacks and browns, and one direction blue, and in the other more green still. There was yellow in some blooming, and red in others. I could have lit a match and melted the world into stained glass. I could have melted it into Monet. I saw Arthur’s seat like a target. My view stretched from acropolis to throne, like reverse democracy. It was the American devolution.
I had no idea how to get to Holyrood park, where I would walk over the hill and find myself home. But directions are a funny thing-- usually it helps to walk in the direction you’re facing, especially if you’re facing where you want to go. Streets complicated the matter slightly, as they can. I found myself on a road perpendicular to the hill, but I cut through a forested park and came out under a bridge. It was mostly decayed and graphitized. I passed through it, lost, disoriented. There was a bus stop I considered staying at for I still had my day pass. But I soon saw the Holyrood Royal Palace and the hill behind it. I sat to rest at a strange, industrial, miniature set of tributaries. I considered dipping my feet, playing a giant, but decided to delay the Herculean sensation for a few minutes more.
And then I pushed off and was at the top. And I felt big.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Three
I soon found myself at sea level, eye to eye with the heavy grey. Though there were streaks of blue, the sky was of a buffer resolution and, of the two, the one to justify the endless horizon. The occasional cloud, transcending the stillness of the hue, mocked the anchored boats, casting out the sun, and turned the sky itself grey as its shadow. Some moments passed and my hair was blown by the wind and some water splashed a rock of the shore. I imagined floating and bloated and drifting beneath the docks to read the etched markings in the ancient wood. I imagined the drag of passing boats, the pull from below, tugging my navel, submerging; and I imagined, pulled to sea, myself collected as pieces in the beaks of beasts in the nets of working men on the plates of royal places endowed with crests and coats of arms. Fuck the worms. I'll feed kings.
And I saw on the rotten wood a piece of the sun, dripped. The girls behind me saw my grip on the gridded fence and giggled as I shook. I gave up because, even over the fence, there was a considerable leap.
Earlier, I had stepped aboard the bus and squeezed a toothy smile at the driver ahead. I dropped two pounds where indicated, and with a series of accent and breath, he said something too thick for me to swallow. "What?" Again, something. I still don't know what. I squeezed more teeth and nodded and dropped £0.50 more into the little box in his window. He mumbled and gave up and printed my ticket. I snatched it and stumbled away, bewildered by his holy tongues. We left Nicholson street and headed up. I watched several riders hit their stop buttons and could not determine the method they used for timing. Arriving at Princes street, I pressed the button, apparently prematurely. There was a flourish of chaos as the driver fought for the loading zone and shot me a dirty, soiled glance. Happy to escape, I boarded the 22 across the street. Things were much easier here as I already had a ticket and didn't need to pay again. I knew the score, and I managed balance and finesse.
On the way to the Ocean Terminal we maneuvered through streets pierced by waterways. The stone constructs were charming, and I was pleased, but I soon looked to the water's source and saw the greyness and the cranes and docks where there should have been a proper void. The view to infinity was blocked by industry, and the horizon was situated much higher than was at all appropriate. The bus went on, and I was back between buildings. I looked back to the interior of the bus and wondered who among me had a bomb strapped to his stomach, pregnant with vigorous conviction. There was that terrorist attack in Scotland last month. Do less. We're on a bus going to the sea: be content.
I found the Ocean Terminal to not be much. Mostly, it was an enormous shopping mall, with a movie theatre called Vue at the top. The mall was connected to the Royal Yacht Brittania, which was docked in the water beside, connected by a sky bridge. The Scottish Board of Tourism rated it ****. I was surprised because, really, it's a boat connected to a shopping mall, and who needs that? I found nothing in the mall's record store so I wandered around the edge of the building where the antique pier grew flowers from its knuckles. Several mall workers sat on benches nearby and seemed bored. One man sketched as he reclined, facing the waves. I decided it must be hard to be a flower living in wood, not dirt, but who am I to question the lifestyles of the flowers of the world?
And where did that gate lead? I imagined some importance on the fringe of the Meadows , and I heard jazz coming through the walls. And a flower in the stone, again cut off, elevated, impossible. I would have liked to know. The music and the flower swayed, and I walked on.
I took the 22 back to the Venetian-esque waterways and imagined sea shanties to the rhythm of my steps. Here, I was far more satisfied. Though there was still no view to the distance, there was culture here of vagabonds and rascal types and typical romanticized delirium.
I sat on the grassy shore and watched a boat leave the stone harbor until the bus returned. I flashed my ticket and sat down tall, for, by this time, I was competent and dry.
And I saw on the rotten wood a piece of the sun, dripped. The girls behind me saw my grip on the gridded fence and giggled as I shook. I gave up because, even over the fence, there was a considerable leap.
Earlier, I had stepped aboard the bus and squeezed a toothy smile at the driver ahead. I dropped two pounds where indicated, and with a series of accent and breath, he said something too thick for me to swallow. "What?" Again, something. I still don't know what. I squeezed more teeth and nodded and dropped £0.50 more into the little box in his window. He mumbled and gave up and printed my ticket. I snatched it and stumbled away, bewildered by his holy tongues. We left Nicholson street and headed up. I watched several riders hit their stop buttons and could not determine the method they used for timing. Arriving at Princes street, I pressed the button, apparently prematurely. There was a flourish of chaos as the driver fought for the loading zone and shot me a dirty, soiled glance. Happy to escape, I boarded the 22 across the street. Things were much easier here as I already had a ticket and didn't need to pay again. I knew the score, and I managed balance and finesse.
On the way to the Ocean Terminal we maneuvered through streets pierced by waterways. The stone constructs were charming, and I was pleased, but I soon looked to the water's source and saw the greyness and the cranes and docks where there should have been a proper void. The view to infinity was blocked by industry, and the horizon was situated much higher than was at all appropriate. The bus went on, and I was back between buildings. I looked back to the interior of the bus and wondered who among me had a bomb strapped to his stomach, pregnant with vigorous conviction. There was that terrorist attack in Scotland last month. Do less. We're on a bus going to the sea: be content.
I found the Ocean Terminal to not be much. Mostly, it was an enormous shopping mall, with a movie theatre called Vue at the top. The mall was connected to the Royal Yacht Brittania, which was docked in the water beside, connected by a sky bridge. The Scottish Board of Tourism rated it ****. I was surprised because, really, it's a boat connected to a shopping mall, and who needs that? I found nothing in the mall's record store so I wandered around the edge of the building where the antique pier grew flowers from its knuckles. Several mall workers sat on benches nearby and seemed bored. One man sketched as he reclined, facing the waves. I decided it must be hard to be a flower living in wood, not dirt, but who am I to question the lifestyles of the flowers of the world?
And where did that gate lead? I imagined some importance on the fringe of the Meadows , and I heard jazz coming through the walls. And a flower in the stone, again cut off, elevated, impossible. I would have liked to know. The music and the flower swayed, and I walked on.
I took the 22 back to the Venetian-esque waterways and imagined sea shanties to the rhythm of my steps. Here, I was far more satisfied. Though there was still no view to the distance, there was culture here of vagabonds and rascal types and typical romanticized delirium.
I sat on the grassy shore and watched a boat leave the stone harbor until the bus returned. I flashed my ticket and sat down tall, for, by this time, I was competent and dry.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Two
Traveling in a vacuum left me in a daze. I saw a sunrise while sleeping and woke up a day displaced. Strange faces and hands made me feel at strange home. Some fat vulgarity-connoisseur kept staring at one stewardess' ass ( I know, it should be flight attendant, but he put her in her place). By the end he was stretching his rolls and dropping eye-drops like booze. Albeit, he made sure to flex his biceps in the process, ad nauseum, as he reached much higher than necessary, squinting in case he saw his reflection as the water fell. Overshadowed by pit stains, efforts were relentless but futile. Take that, dirty America!
I stumbled upon a red carpet, deceiving in that it soon angled uphill. At the summit, I made my way through corridors wide and industrial. English names abounded but confounded all the same. I wasn't sleep deprived, but I could have slept. In subconscious self-defense, I played somnambulist when I approached The Man.
She said,
"Why're you here?" Already beset but ready. I brandished myself proudly, flaunting my character in good-standing via the organized folder of proper documentation.
"Hi." Endlessly polite. "I'm here to study at the University." Must take offense! Slumber eyes flung open like sand in the face! Stand aside, for thou shall perish. I handed her my official letter and excuse.
"Alright, I'll need to see your ------." There was a language barrier.
"Sorry?"
"Your return information, please."
Crisis was upon me. The rest was a daze or too brutal to describe. I awoke again to a field of green and sitting. Red lights signaled the doors were secure and the driver was deaf behind his screen. When I left him, I gave him the tip he deserved, for asking no questions and driving straight wherever possible. These are the men that will prosper, with an extra ten pence tip for the self-control of seeking knowledge when only at no cost of privacy. His efficiency is admirable and lent to no waste. I praise you, mystery man, your time has come. Rise up and rise. Drive into the sea and circle the world with flags as your sails. Paint yourself in blood. Be reborn in the North and reach the sun.
I'm now in this room, with sticky wood on my elbows. I slept here last night, after a day of wandering. I found more fields of green and more admiration. The fields turned to climbs, the climbs to cliffs, and the cliffs to peaks. My view was a welcome reminder of why the wanderers are drawn. By hands and by feet. I embraced the castle on the hill and the blue horizon of the sea.
Today, I found the former, and tomorrow I will what's left.
The streets of Edinburgh are made primarily of weathered and easy stone. Their peoples fit them accordingly and likewise shape to the ebb and the flow. All is soft and sturdy.
DUNCE
DUNCE
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