Questionnaire:
What a clean city. I’m kinda sleepy.
Uniforms. With your name on.
My everyday life.
Thick smoke, no breeze.
And how do you see yourself in fifty year’s time?
[Place for credits of movie about missing persons.]
We plants are happy plants.
200 people faint. Hard to breathe.
Roll up roll up.
Any information you give will be processed by upwards of 200 commercial organisations and an unspecified number of military, governmental, and non—governmental organisations.
Do not get out
What might have been.
She blew a hole right through me.
The more you drive the less intelligent you get.
Hit the road quick.
Oxygen should be regarded as a drug.
Thick smoke not evenly distributed. Visibility 50m.
If you don’t ask me out to dinner I don’t eat.
Lobster-skin-shopping-mall-coffee-stained-lipsync.
The results of this intrusion into your life will be used ‘responsibly’ in ways that you cannot even begin to imagine or comprehend. Of course, the innocent have nothing to fear from the rapidly expanding data industry.
A wardrobe painted in fairground colours.
Story begins with explosion/ends with explosion.
Your fantasies are unlikely but beautiful.
No substitute for a healthy smile.
It occurs to him that if he died that night,
He would have died happy because he was loved.
Has sex ever really moved you to a different place?
Reduced enjoyment and pleasure.
The smoke came back extremely thick and abrasive.
Thank you for your time.
People are aware, but not that bothered.
Authorities here are alert.
Everything I do/say is suspect.
A strangler’s hands.
One of us.
No autonomy. A lethal cocktail. Horrific violence.
I am bad. I am to blame.
I think a little more sucking-up is needed.
Food and water crisis developing.
Have a safe day.
Words on a gravestone: I waited but you never came.
What will we mean? Nothing.
General loss of interest.
He’ll do something silly.
Winning. The last player left in the game is the winner.
A smile like the grim reaper.
Children go to school tied together, led by parents.
Airports closed. People coughing yellow phlegm.
Not sleeping okay. Trapped in hyperspace.
Thursday, 4 November 2010
Monday, 23 August 2010
The Beach At Redpoint
The sharp wind cut across the curved spine of the sea wall, the chill whipping through our damp clothes. We were holding hands, pasty, fish-white from the spray of the sea and the drizzling rain. She would turn and look at me occasionally but didn’t say anything, I just smiled at her. Neither of us complained about the cold or damp. We were warm with the alcohol.
Across the water, the fiery lights of Grangemouth soaked the sky above Redpoint an eerie phosporesecent orange in the growing twilight. Nothing mattered, we were together and it had come to this. I had bought her on stolen wine and tonight was ours. I couldn’t explain the growing fear in my gut, I shouldn’t be afraid but I was.
After a mile or so we came to the shack and climbed through the hole in the fence to get to it. The inside smelt of salt, rotting wood and mouldering paper. There wasn’t a mattress or anything else to lie on so I spread my heavy jacket on the ground. We sat in the growing darkness and she produced some tea light candles from her pocket and lit them around us. After a while, shivering and quivering, our bodies met.
That tiny shack at the beach was absolutely the perfect place for my first time.
When we came together, I could feel the hairs growing on my chest.
I saw my future.
I saw my past.
For a few minutes it was like being alive.
They lived happily ever after.
All my questions had been answered.
All my fears disappeared.
All that was left was a kiss.
Every move we made was a kiss…
Across the water, the fiery lights of Grangemouth soaked the sky above Redpoint an eerie phosporesecent orange in the growing twilight. Nothing mattered, we were together and it had come to this. I had bought her on stolen wine and tonight was ours. I couldn’t explain the growing fear in my gut, I shouldn’t be afraid but I was.
After a mile or so we came to the shack and climbed through the hole in the fence to get to it. The inside smelt of salt, rotting wood and mouldering paper. There wasn’t a mattress or anything else to lie on so I spread my heavy jacket on the ground. We sat in the growing darkness and she produced some tea light candles from her pocket and lit them around us. After a while, shivering and quivering, our bodies met.
That tiny shack at the beach was absolutely the perfect place for my first time.
When we came together, I could feel the hairs growing on my chest.
I saw my future.
I saw my past.
For a few minutes it was like being alive.
They lived happily ever after.
All my questions had been answered.
All my fears disappeared.
All that was left was a kiss.
Every move we made was a kiss…
Sunday, 11 July 2010
The Remote Part
The crunchy gravel on the path under my feet used to have railway tracks on it. It’s been flattened now, the sleepers and rails torn up to make way for cyclists and walkers. This was never a commercial railway – it was a coal-board owned one. I wonder how many thousands or millions of tonnes of coal sped their way up and down it when it did exist: coal for industry, coal for families, coal for war, coal for pollution, and atoms for peace.
The pathway is picturesque now, the wilderness cleaved back from it’s edges to reveal the rolling countryside around it. Farms and glades that feel inviting and homely, it’s odd to see them from this perspective as my childhood memories show them from different angles. The path is also strewn intermittently with small signs, some of these provide history on the railroad, others point to entrances to the mining villages the trains that rumbled up and down this track would have picked up their loads from.
The bridges, walls and other man made features are neglected, deep green moss and flowers grow from their cracked surfaces lending an ethereal quality to my journey. One bridge in particular evokes a strong memory, it is high and long – crossing a deep natural ravine. I stop for a while and look into the forest from the bridge, eventually I look down – it must be 80-90 feet high. When I was younger, I got really drunk one night and decided to walk along this very same path to sober myself up, I’d come to this bridge and decided to walk down the steep edge of the ravine and see what was underneath.
This turned out to be nothing, but I remember standing at the bottom at around four am with the burn trickling past me and the pale dawn breaking open the sky above; god, this must have been what, eleven or twelve years ago now? I’d gone under the bridge, sat down and fallen asleep. When I awoke, I was no longer under the bridge but was lying next to the sea wall in Culross, new dawn fully upon me, the keen, nippy Western wind blowing across the Forth chilling my face. I still don’t know how I got there, sleepwalk or blackout, one or the other…
This bridge is also important because it signals that I am near the end of my journey. The path runs for around seventeen miles in total, there is an entrance to it a couple of minutes walk from my mother’s house. My destination leaves the path around eight miles after it’s beginning and I veer off onto a country road. Where the path joins this road is near my Grandmother’s house but this is not the purpose of my journey. It has been years since I have traversed this path, but I remember every twist and turn of it so well I could still navigate it with my eyes closed, I’m glad I don’t have to do this as I am met with a surprising sight upon rounding a bend…
As is common in Fife, there are coal-bings scattered arbitrarily around the countryside near the mining towns; large slag heaps made of dry dirt and shale, the waste products of labour, like cairns to a dead industry marking where the pits that produced them used to be. The bings are ugly black marks that ruin the view and serve as little more than a reminder of a time when the means to produce energy was less clean.
This has changed.
The bing I remember as an ugly blackish-red hillock from my childhood is covered in vegetation, weeds, trees, and flowers. I am amazed that life has managed to cling and blossom in the loose stony earth, the bing now looks like a natural part of the landscape, unnoticeable save for the gate and fencing at it’s foot reminding people to keep off it due to the loose shifting soil. It looks solid – no real danger in climbing it now I suppose?
I consider this for a moment but remember the bunch of flowers in my hand – the real purpose of my journey – and see the other hill and winding path I have to climb in the distance, the cemetery at it’s summit. No time for this now.
I walk on down the road, conflicted and unbalanced by the revelation of the pile of shale I’ve just left, proof that no matter how difficult the condition, life will find a way. This gives little comfort as I ease down the road, not wanting to face what I have to face when I reach the top of the hill.
The pathway is picturesque now, the wilderness cleaved back from it’s edges to reveal the rolling countryside around it. Farms and glades that feel inviting and homely, it’s odd to see them from this perspective as my childhood memories show them from different angles. The path is also strewn intermittently with small signs, some of these provide history on the railroad, others point to entrances to the mining villages the trains that rumbled up and down this track would have picked up their loads from.
The bridges, walls and other man made features are neglected, deep green moss and flowers grow from their cracked surfaces lending an ethereal quality to my journey. One bridge in particular evokes a strong memory, it is high and long – crossing a deep natural ravine. I stop for a while and look into the forest from the bridge, eventually I look down – it must be 80-90 feet high. When I was younger, I got really drunk one night and decided to walk along this very same path to sober myself up, I’d come to this bridge and decided to walk down the steep edge of the ravine and see what was underneath.
This turned out to be nothing, but I remember standing at the bottom at around four am with the burn trickling past me and the pale dawn breaking open the sky above; god, this must have been what, eleven or twelve years ago now? I’d gone under the bridge, sat down and fallen asleep. When I awoke, I was no longer under the bridge but was lying next to the sea wall in Culross, new dawn fully upon me, the keen, nippy Western wind blowing across the Forth chilling my face. I still don’t know how I got there, sleepwalk or blackout, one or the other…
This bridge is also important because it signals that I am near the end of my journey. The path runs for around seventeen miles in total, there is an entrance to it a couple of minutes walk from my mother’s house. My destination leaves the path around eight miles after it’s beginning and I veer off onto a country road. Where the path joins this road is near my Grandmother’s house but this is not the purpose of my journey. It has been years since I have traversed this path, but I remember every twist and turn of it so well I could still navigate it with my eyes closed, I’m glad I don’t have to do this as I am met with a surprising sight upon rounding a bend…
As is common in Fife, there are coal-bings scattered arbitrarily around the countryside near the mining towns; large slag heaps made of dry dirt and shale, the waste products of labour, like cairns to a dead industry marking where the pits that produced them used to be. The bings are ugly black marks that ruin the view and serve as little more than a reminder of a time when the means to produce energy was less clean.
This has changed.
The bing I remember as an ugly blackish-red hillock from my childhood is covered in vegetation, weeds, trees, and flowers. I am amazed that life has managed to cling and blossom in the loose stony earth, the bing now looks like a natural part of the landscape, unnoticeable save for the gate and fencing at it’s foot reminding people to keep off it due to the loose shifting soil. It looks solid – no real danger in climbing it now I suppose?
I consider this for a moment but remember the bunch of flowers in my hand – the real purpose of my journey – and see the other hill and winding path I have to climb in the distance, the cemetery at it’s summit. No time for this now.
I walk on down the road, conflicted and unbalanced by the revelation of the pile of shale I’ve just left, proof that no matter how difficult the condition, life will find a way. This gives little comfort as I ease down the road, not wanting to face what I have to face when I reach the top of the hill.
Chip Shop
Despite my reservations, I am wandering the streets of the town in the company of several people with whom I have little in common. The evening has been dominated by seemingly random forays into pubs populated almost exclusively by large men in vests, with whom I have absolutely nothing in common.
Every glance upwards reveals a sky that has been soaked the colour of undistinguished lager. Every time I attempt to join in the obvious jollity of the occasion I am drowned out by the inadvertant yelping of my compatriots, and I resort to adopting a vacuous yet friendly expression whenever any enquiry is directed in my direction.
We stand in a huddle of indecision outside a brightly-lit doorway, and earnest debate falls around my ears as I watch, with unbelieving nausea, a chef in the chip shop opposite shoo a flaming, but living, pigeon from the window of his establishment. The flying, sputtering lump of flame erupts from the window with an erratic path that is subsumed from my attention by an enquiry from my colleagues regarding money. I answer with rapidity, only to turn my gaze back to find the burning bird has disappeared from view.
After an eternity of boredom we emerge from the club. The pigeon is lying in the gutter, curiously expanded, horribly burnt, utterly dead.
Every glance upwards reveals a sky that has been soaked the colour of undistinguished lager. Every time I attempt to join in the obvious jollity of the occasion I am drowned out by the inadvertant yelping of my compatriots, and I resort to adopting a vacuous yet friendly expression whenever any enquiry is directed in my direction.
We stand in a huddle of indecision outside a brightly-lit doorway, and earnest debate falls around my ears as I watch, with unbelieving nausea, a chef in the chip shop opposite shoo a flaming, but living, pigeon from the window of his establishment. The flying, sputtering lump of flame erupts from the window with an erratic path that is subsumed from my attention by an enquiry from my colleagues regarding money. I answer with rapidity, only to turn my gaze back to find the burning bird has disappeared from view.
After an eternity of boredom we emerge from the club. The pigeon is lying in the gutter, curiously expanded, horribly burnt, utterly dead.
Saturday, 3 July 2010
Lurgee
‘I wrote a poem about her around Christmas 2009, although I was a bit drunk at the time I can remember writing the poem clearly.’ I looked at my single audience member to ensure he was listening before I continued, ‘I forgot all about it but remembered I’d written it when I was off work ill, it was odd, my thoughts of everything good about her began to disintegrate after a while. I re-read the poem and found myself looking at the words but I wasn’t sure what any of them meant anymore.’ Dave looked at me curiously as the last words trailed to a whisper on my lips; his eyes seemed to lose a little focus in the confines of the dingy bar. I’d been telling him about the girl, not really knowing what I hoped to achieve in doing so.
‘What made you write the poem in the first place?’ he asked me. I began to wonder why I was even telling him the story and I had to think about it for a bit before going on, ‘I don’t know, I’ve never been one for writing poems about girls; my subject matter is usually abstract – I thrive on the stifled necessity of existence, consistently drawn by a complex narcissism to the ugly. In my opinion, things of beauty usually speak for themselves and require little further description…’
Dave gave me an odd look again and waited for me to continue, ‘I think it’s about someone getting under your skin when you least expect it, then having to deal with it and rationalise it within yourself: it’s about how you become weak, how you become prone and the ways someone else can make you feel bad about yourself.’
‘If she made you feel so bad about yourself, why didn’t you just walk away from it? Surely it would have been easier?’ It was my turn to look baffled, I allowed my thoughts collect and churn in my head before going on: ‘I thought I had done her so much wrong, so much harm that I wanted to make amends for all of it – I wanted to prove I’m a good person and that thorny words soaked in alcohol mean nothing. None of it made any difference, she accepted my apology on the surface, and apparently, everything is ok. I keep trying to move forward but it always stalls and really, what was there isn’t there anymore.’ I’ve finished my beer so take a long pull of the Glenmorangie in front of me and keep my eyes on the table.
‘Did you try? Did you really try? Were you sincere and did you tell her what this was doing to you?’ I was twirling the Whisky around in my glass watching the oily water cling to its sides; I raised my eyes and looked at him, noticing for the first time how badly his hairline had receded. ‘I told her everything, well almost everything, but opening up to her just made things worse – it seemed to awaken the notion of the degree of control she had over me in her conscience. I guess some people just don’t have the emotional maturity to deal with the truth…’
‘That doesn’t make any sense…’ he tells me, ‘well it makes perfect sense to me, she barely treats me as if I’m human these days, it’s a silly manipulative mind-game – devaluation I think it’s called, designed to make the affected party feel worthless and insignificant, bouts of the silent treatment followed by periods of acting normally again. The trick is to keep the other person on their toes by constantly making them wonder what they’ve done wrong in the hope that they’ll keep grovelling, crawling back…the whole thing is pretty masochistic.’
‘Oh yeah, I see where you’re going with this – reminds me of an ex-girlfriend of mine, I got shot of her pretty sharpish, but you, why are you clinging to this? You realise that there is nothing you can do and it’ll only get worse?’ Dave had a curl of a grin at the corner of his mouth now, smug, like he’d just cracked the enigma code. ‘I know that now, it took me a while to realise, I was so full of fear and doubt about things I might have done to her, but I realised it wasn’t me – she needs hurt in her life to cling to. I’m ready to walk away for good now, it’s time to concentrate on the people who have proved time and again that they are there for me unconditionally…’
I’m twirling my drink again, enjoying the feel of the slippery glass under my fingers, ‘Good!’ Dave exclaims, his trickle of smile breaking into a fully-fledged grin, ‘but one thing…if you realised this already then why did you need to speak to me about it?’ I’m a bit sheepish about answering this, ‘well…’ I say, ‘it’s more to do with the poem…although I don’t know what it means anymore …it’s really good …definitely one of my better efforts…. but it’s a false memory of an idealised person that didn’t really exist. I don’t know what to do with it, it’s wrong to destroy art…’
‘It’s your creation, Gav – you need to decide whether it continues or ceases to exist, that’s all I can tell you, the choice is yours. Anyway…I’m going to the bar, same again?’ I nod my approval at this and ponder the problem until he returns. ‘My God!’ he says, looking with surprise at my face, ‘You’re grinning from ear to ear!’ I realise I am, and I feel good, cold German beer slips down my throat like honey.
***
When I’m back in my flat later that evening, I take the Moleskine journal I penned the poem in from the bookshelf and locate the page it is written on. I remove it, tenderly I suppose, from the journal with a gentle tearing motion. The paper feels strange and oily under my fingers, I sit on the couch, light a cigarette and read it over a couple of times. These were once beautiful words: abstract, ill fitting and raw together in a jumble that made sense to me before when I was weaker. I continue to look at the page for a while, noting the lack of resonance the words now have, they are just dull scribbles on a piece of paper.
I crumple it up, put it in the ashtray which I then place upon the sill of the open window. I take my lighter and gingerly set fire to one of the corners poking out from the messy, compacted ball, it catches and begins to burn, I watch the smoke pour out the window, washing the incoherency, fear and doubt into the night sky on a gentle breeze. The burning smell blows back in and hits me and I’m reminded of scrunched up newspapers used to set fire to piles of autumn leaves – I love the autumn, for its sense of melancholy seems to strike my need for sadness. There is poetry in the dying of the year and mystery as well. It’s summer now, but it will pass soon enough.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UTip94vtNVM
‘What made you write the poem in the first place?’ he asked me. I began to wonder why I was even telling him the story and I had to think about it for a bit before going on, ‘I don’t know, I’ve never been one for writing poems about girls; my subject matter is usually abstract – I thrive on the stifled necessity of existence, consistently drawn by a complex narcissism to the ugly. In my opinion, things of beauty usually speak for themselves and require little further description…’
Dave gave me an odd look again and waited for me to continue, ‘I think it’s about someone getting under your skin when you least expect it, then having to deal with it and rationalise it within yourself: it’s about how you become weak, how you become prone and the ways someone else can make you feel bad about yourself.’
‘If she made you feel so bad about yourself, why didn’t you just walk away from it? Surely it would have been easier?’ It was my turn to look baffled, I allowed my thoughts collect and churn in my head before going on: ‘I thought I had done her so much wrong, so much harm that I wanted to make amends for all of it – I wanted to prove I’m a good person and that thorny words soaked in alcohol mean nothing. None of it made any difference, she accepted my apology on the surface, and apparently, everything is ok. I keep trying to move forward but it always stalls and really, what was there isn’t there anymore.’ I’ve finished my beer so take a long pull of the Glenmorangie in front of me and keep my eyes on the table.
‘Did you try? Did you really try? Were you sincere and did you tell her what this was doing to you?’ I was twirling the Whisky around in my glass watching the oily water cling to its sides; I raised my eyes and looked at him, noticing for the first time how badly his hairline had receded. ‘I told her everything, well almost everything, but opening up to her just made things worse – it seemed to awaken the notion of the degree of control she had over me in her conscience. I guess some people just don’t have the emotional maturity to deal with the truth…’
‘That doesn’t make any sense…’ he tells me, ‘well it makes perfect sense to me, she barely treats me as if I’m human these days, it’s a silly manipulative mind-game – devaluation I think it’s called, designed to make the affected party feel worthless and insignificant, bouts of the silent treatment followed by periods of acting normally again. The trick is to keep the other person on their toes by constantly making them wonder what they’ve done wrong in the hope that they’ll keep grovelling, crawling back…the whole thing is pretty masochistic.’
‘Oh yeah, I see where you’re going with this – reminds me of an ex-girlfriend of mine, I got shot of her pretty sharpish, but you, why are you clinging to this? You realise that there is nothing you can do and it’ll only get worse?’ Dave had a curl of a grin at the corner of his mouth now, smug, like he’d just cracked the enigma code. ‘I know that now, it took me a while to realise, I was so full of fear and doubt about things I might have done to her, but I realised it wasn’t me – she needs hurt in her life to cling to. I’m ready to walk away for good now, it’s time to concentrate on the people who have proved time and again that they are there for me unconditionally…’
I’m twirling my drink again, enjoying the feel of the slippery glass under my fingers, ‘Good!’ Dave exclaims, his trickle of smile breaking into a fully-fledged grin, ‘but one thing…if you realised this already then why did you need to speak to me about it?’ I’m a bit sheepish about answering this, ‘well…’ I say, ‘it’s more to do with the poem…although I don’t know what it means anymore …it’s really good …definitely one of my better efforts…. but it’s a false memory of an idealised person that didn’t really exist. I don’t know what to do with it, it’s wrong to destroy art…’
‘It’s your creation, Gav – you need to decide whether it continues or ceases to exist, that’s all I can tell you, the choice is yours. Anyway…I’m going to the bar, same again?’ I nod my approval at this and ponder the problem until he returns. ‘My God!’ he says, looking with surprise at my face, ‘You’re grinning from ear to ear!’ I realise I am, and I feel good, cold German beer slips down my throat like honey.
***
When I’m back in my flat later that evening, I take the Moleskine journal I penned the poem in from the bookshelf and locate the page it is written on. I remove it, tenderly I suppose, from the journal with a gentle tearing motion. The paper feels strange and oily under my fingers, I sit on the couch, light a cigarette and read it over a couple of times. These were once beautiful words: abstract, ill fitting and raw together in a jumble that made sense to me before when I was weaker. I continue to look at the page for a while, noting the lack of resonance the words now have, they are just dull scribbles on a piece of paper.
I crumple it up, put it in the ashtray which I then place upon the sill of the open window. I take my lighter and gingerly set fire to one of the corners poking out from the messy, compacted ball, it catches and begins to burn, I watch the smoke pour out the window, washing the incoherency, fear and doubt into the night sky on a gentle breeze. The burning smell blows back in and hits me and I’m reminded of scrunched up newspapers used to set fire to piles of autumn leaves – I love the autumn, for its sense of melancholy seems to strike my need for sadness. There is poetry in the dying of the year and mystery as well. It’s summer now, but it will pass soon enough.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UTip94vtNVM
Sunday, 20 June 2010
'He's Fascinated With Opening And Closing Doors...'
My nephew has bounced off every piece of furniture in the living room within the space of five minutes. He has also picked-up, played with and discarded every single one of the multitude of toys that are scattered across the floor, nothing seems able to hold his attention for any length of time. All I can see is a relentless little ball of energy that moves in and out of my vision and gets annoyed when I’m not paying attention to it.
Saying that, I’m curiously fascinated by the little man before me: a person in minature, I see shades of my Grandad, Father and myself in his overjoyed face as he begins to rip pages from a cardboard book full of nonsense characters. This act prompts my sister to get to her feet and scold him for his wanton destruction, I’m too blasé to care and enjoy seeing the enjoyment he obtains from this and the lack of understanding of what he is doing.
It’s a pity that as a species, we are unable to remember a time when simply committing an act for the sheer hell of it without worrying about the implications was possible, this is lost in infancy and develops as we become socially conditioned. Obviously, it’s possible to be a hedonist and live in such a fashion and not care about the implications, but deep down you still know that there are bound to be repercussions involved in any act you commit.
I try to imagine a society without bounds or limits, but the notion of anarchy creeps in seconds into this process negating it before it even really begins. The only state a boundless existence can be captured in is the state of infancy before notions of right and wrong begin to form – enjoyment can never again be pure and unsullied due to the constraints of trying to make your own particular existence a good one, as Kant said; ‘The starry heavens above me, and the moral law within me.’
I never found the Categorical Imperative that reassuring to be honest.
So, I’m free, yet I’m bound, this is the contradiction of existence I find most difficult to deal with, I consistently find that I try to do the right thing, but even doing the right thing can hurt and alienate the people you care about most. I consider the notion of my own freedom (real or imagined) and it’s impact on the people around me to be the thing that causes the majority of my neuroses and sleepless nights, and to be honest, I often wish the night were quieter for me. Maybe it would be simpler just to shut everyone out and I wouldn’t have to worry so much anymore – that’s the trouble with ‘letting people in’.
I stumble out of this little reverie…
My nephew has managed to reach up to the kitchen door handle and is trying to open it with his clumsy inarticulate little hand, he knows that my mother is behind the door as she keeps popping her head around it to talk him, my sister or me whilst simultaneously making breakfast in an absurdly large frying pan. For all his effort and growing intelligence, my nephew is unsuccessful in his endeavour and begins to get frustrated and gurney – I shouldn’t find this amusing but I do. My sister turns to me, smiles and says, ‘He’s fascinated with opening and closing doors.’
I think on this for a second before remarking, ‘well, that’s something that runs in the family at least…’
Saying that, I’m curiously fascinated by the little man before me: a person in minature, I see shades of my Grandad, Father and myself in his overjoyed face as he begins to rip pages from a cardboard book full of nonsense characters. This act prompts my sister to get to her feet and scold him for his wanton destruction, I’m too blasé to care and enjoy seeing the enjoyment he obtains from this and the lack of understanding of what he is doing.
It’s a pity that as a species, we are unable to remember a time when simply committing an act for the sheer hell of it without worrying about the implications was possible, this is lost in infancy and develops as we become socially conditioned. Obviously, it’s possible to be a hedonist and live in such a fashion and not care about the implications, but deep down you still know that there are bound to be repercussions involved in any act you commit.
I try to imagine a society without bounds or limits, but the notion of anarchy creeps in seconds into this process negating it before it even really begins. The only state a boundless existence can be captured in is the state of infancy before notions of right and wrong begin to form – enjoyment can never again be pure and unsullied due to the constraints of trying to make your own particular existence a good one, as Kant said; ‘The starry heavens above me, and the moral law within me.’
I never found the Categorical Imperative that reassuring to be honest.
So, I’m free, yet I’m bound, this is the contradiction of existence I find most difficult to deal with, I consistently find that I try to do the right thing, but even doing the right thing can hurt and alienate the people you care about most. I consider the notion of my own freedom (real or imagined) and it’s impact on the people around me to be the thing that causes the majority of my neuroses and sleepless nights, and to be honest, I often wish the night were quieter for me. Maybe it would be simpler just to shut everyone out and I wouldn’t have to worry so much anymore – that’s the trouble with ‘letting people in’.
I stumble out of this little reverie…
My nephew has managed to reach up to the kitchen door handle and is trying to open it with his clumsy inarticulate little hand, he knows that my mother is behind the door as she keeps popping her head around it to talk him, my sister or me whilst simultaneously making breakfast in an absurdly large frying pan. For all his effort and growing intelligence, my nephew is unsuccessful in his endeavour and begins to get frustrated and gurney – I shouldn’t find this amusing but I do. My sister turns to me, smiles and says, ‘He’s fascinated with opening and closing doors.’
I think on this for a second before remarking, ‘well, that’s something that runs in the family at least…’
Wednesday, 26 May 2010
Viva Largs Vegas
The still of the water is occasionally broken by the lurch of the Cumbrae ferry as it docks or departs towards Millport, its deck strewn with tourists and shoppers. Further ashore, the sun drenches the promenade in white light bounced refractively on the surface of the Holy Loch changing its hue in a dancing shimmer. The air hangs heavy and hot, the only bluster comes from the throng of bodies making their way along the concrete path, one of which will occasionally dash after a dog that has slipped its lead making a break for open water.
My glass sweats beads of moisture onto the table in front of me on the outdoor table as the dull ease of the world unfolds before me. I see people of all sizes, ages and descriptions slide through my vision: young, old, fat, thin, ugly, beautiful. This being Scotland, they’re mostly fat and ugly. Fugly. Secretly, I had hoped that there would be more beautiful girls to watch, there’s something about seeing a beautiful woman in the sunlight…
This is not a glorious world-famous resort – this is Largs, or ‘Lards’ as I have started to referring to it inwardly owing to the amount of morbidly obese people I’ve witnessed walking around. The shore is not beautiful, it is covered in a variety of large and small stones and I am almost tempted to walk down to the waterfront and chuck a few into the loch – there’s something psychologically satisfying about the sound a stone makes as it breaks water. The shore is full of kids and dogs; I would look out of place there.
The table I’m sat at is a garden-variety picnic bench under a fabric awning lining the front of the bar; Grant and Nikki sit across from me. I’m absorbed watching a group of nuns making their way up the promenade, one of them, probably the only one below the age of ninety suddenly makes a break (or rather an amble) for it and gets away from the pack. She is munching on an ice cream cone and I can see her false teeth sliding around in her mouth as she laps greedily at it. The nun notices me looking at her, smiles and is about to wave, Grant sneezes.
Still looking at the nun I say, ‘bless you’ a little too loudly, the nun says ‘and you son’, she hobbles off, delighted to be in the sun and eating ice cream. I smile inwardly at the innocence of this and the simple misunderstanding of the gesture. The nuns trundle off into the distance to be replaced by other less circumspect characters, Grant and Nikki fawn over the different breeds of dogs they see – I know nothing about dogs but I’m enjoying their banter.
I feel at ease with the world, it’s been a while since I’ve felt this relaxed. The simple presence of sunlight can do wonders for one’s mood and outlook on life, hot light satisfies some of the hungers that are more difficult to satiate. ‘What about the Hoff?’ Grant asks me lazily, ‘Huh?’ I say, turning to face him, ‘Is he still there?’ I look down the shore to check.
We spotted him on our way up to the bar, lying on a towel on the rocky beach with nothing on but a pair of blue and red trunks that look like they were purchased from the 1984 Debenham’s catalogue: His body is slight and wiry, yet coloured a natural bronze that would put a Californian to shame, his hair is long, unkempt, its colour is black, streaked with cigarette-ash grey. He looks like a small castaway and from what I can tell he hasn’t moved since we passed him on our way here an hour ago.
‘Yeah, he’s still there’, I tell them. We indulge in some light-hearted conversation for a while making observations and being observed by others. Eventually the Hoff gets up.
The three of us watch him make his way down to the water as he wades in to his ankles, bends down and splashes some salt-water on to his face. Many others have stopped their tracks and loiter to watch the spectacle of the lonely sunbather on the craggy shore. He stands for a while facing out into the depths, hands on his hips like Phineas awaiting the Harpies. This seems to go on for an age, but he retreats as the ferry arrives and sends cascades of breakwater up his body.
The Hoff makes his way back to the spot where his towel and belongings lie, pulls on the simple attire of black t-shirt, black jeans and black trainers, shaking the sand out of the latter before putting them on. He makes his way to one of the amusement arcades, straps on a leather money pouch and begins touting for business from the marks on the prom, unaware that his very existence and actions have caused more amusement and pleasure than his cackle of machines will ever be able to.
My glass sweats beads of moisture onto the table in front of me on the outdoor table as the dull ease of the world unfolds before me. I see people of all sizes, ages and descriptions slide through my vision: young, old, fat, thin, ugly, beautiful. This being Scotland, they’re mostly fat and ugly. Fugly. Secretly, I had hoped that there would be more beautiful girls to watch, there’s something about seeing a beautiful woman in the sunlight…
This is not a glorious world-famous resort – this is Largs, or ‘Lards’ as I have started to referring to it inwardly owing to the amount of morbidly obese people I’ve witnessed walking around. The shore is not beautiful, it is covered in a variety of large and small stones and I am almost tempted to walk down to the waterfront and chuck a few into the loch – there’s something psychologically satisfying about the sound a stone makes as it breaks water. The shore is full of kids and dogs; I would look out of place there.
The table I’m sat at is a garden-variety picnic bench under a fabric awning lining the front of the bar; Grant and Nikki sit across from me. I’m absorbed watching a group of nuns making their way up the promenade, one of them, probably the only one below the age of ninety suddenly makes a break (or rather an amble) for it and gets away from the pack. She is munching on an ice cream cone and I can see her false teeth sliding around in her mouth as she laps greedily at it. The nun notices me looking at her, smiles and is about to wave, Grant sneezes.
Still looking at the nun I say, ‘bless you’ a little too loudly, the nun says ‘and you son’, she hobbles off, delighted to be in the sun and eating ice cream. I smile inwardly at the innocence of this and the simple misunderstanding of the gesture. The nuns trundle off into the distance to be replaced by other less circumspect characters, Grant and Nikki fawn over the different breeds of dogs they see – I know nothing about dogs but I’m enjoying their banter.
I feel at ease with the world, it’s been a while since I’ve felt this relaxed. The simple presence of sunlight can do wonders for one’s mood and outlook on life, hot light satisfies some of the hungers that are more difficult to satiate. ‘What about the Hoff?’ Grant asks me lazily, ‘Huh?’ I say, turning to face him, ‘Is he still there?’ I look down the shore to check.
We spotted him on our way up to the bar, lying on a towel on the rocky beach with nothing on but a pair of blue and red trunks that look like they were purchased from the 1984 Debenham’s catalogue: His body is slight and wiry, yet coloured a natural bronze that would put a Californian to shame, his hair is long, unkempt, its colour is black, streaked with cigarette-ash grey. He looks like a small castaway and from what I can tell he hasn’t moved since we passed him on our way here an hour ago.
‘Yeah, he’s still there’, I tell them. We indulge in some light-hearted conversation for a while making observations and being observed by others. Eventually the Hoff gets up.
The three of us watch him make his way down to the water as he wades in to his ankles, bends down and splashes some salt-water on to his face. Many others have stopped their tracks and loiter to watch the spectacle of the lonely sunbather on the craggy shore. He stands for a while facing out into the depths, hands on his hips like Phineas awaiting the Harpies. This seems to go on for an age, but he retreats as the ferry arrives and sends cascades of breakwater up his body.
The Hoff makes his way back to the spot where his towel and belongings lie, pulls on the simple attire of black t-shirt, black jeans and black trainers, shaking the sand out of the latter before putting them on. He makes his way to one of the amusement arcades, straps on a leather money pouch and begins touting for business from the marks on the prom, unaware that his very existence and actions have caused more amusement and pleasure than his cackle of machines will ever be able to.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)