Of idols and the idle

They are there and here and there. Travelling around the world spending other people's money, tweeting their warped wisdom as they go. Beware the wormy tongue, the shiny, bright lights and the promise of something too far away to grasp. Their religion seems to get them somewhere but they themselves are in a worse place than nowhere.

Wordy

Truculent isn't a word I use regularly, neither is xenophobic. There is of course a very good reason for this namely I only have a vocabulary of five hundred words (exactly) and these two bad boys are coming in at five hundred and one and five hundred and two respectively. This simple fact has placed these two very useful and certainly meaningful words outside of my current range of basic word benchmarking if you will. A lesser man would perhaps be frustrated by this limitation but not me, when faced with using words outside of my vocabulary and over that somewhat abstract, imagined yet tangible line of five hundred I simply use the time honoured technique of substitution.

For example if I wished to use a word such as “azle” (coming in a seven hundred and ten) I might just use biscuit or roller, or if wanted to say “pernicious” (a close one at fivefivefive) I could say hammock or liquid. Easy. This method has saved me conversational(?) embarrassment many times over and the fact is that as conversations and debates run on few people if any notice it when you drop and hammy, stupid or inappropriate word in there. Language should flow freely, abstractly at times, make interesting noise and allow itself to be as absurd as the topic. Folks the truth is, people only really ever listen properly to what they are saying themselves, everything else is blah-blah right up to word five hundred. Don't believe me? Next time pay close attention to where their eyes are focused as they speak...

Whatever is written

We were looking at each other we think, odd wandering thoughts persisting. I concentrated on the shape of the face, every one's face tells a...? I ate a scone and drank a latte, she had a slice of millionaire shortbread and a larger latte, she had an Americano, she has water, water is clean. I remained persistently invisible, as always. Outside the sun shone, traffic and shoppers passed. When I got home I looked at mine, deeply hidden in the parallel universe of a shaving mirror. How had time played tricks with it, a thousand thousand cigarettes, facial scrubs, alcohol and sugary drinks, shaves, exhaust fumes, summers in Ibiza, Florida and France, rain and salt sea spray, not sleeping, slimy bars of chocolate and greasy fried foods, time, tides, worry and wear and tear, tears, laughter and the occasional heavy handed slap. What I feel is always written on my face.

Lentil as anything

In Denmark there are no lentils, they just have a plain thin soup recipe to get them through the hard Winter months. History is vague on this but my theory is that marauding Vikings had them done away with as a direct result on an intellectual crisis that occurred over the portrayal of Loki, God of Mischief and Mayhem (later to be translated and cruelly reinterpreted as a child's sweet, yes, I can reveal that that is what M&M actually stands for). Loki was always the subject of camp fire arguments and mass murders and due to his wiry profile and scary demeanour associated with thin and (unmanly) soup. It was believed that to thicken the soup would be a gross insult to Loki and so incur the God of M&M's great wrath or he might just play some cruel tricks and twists of fate on you. These might include sinking your longship on some uncharted reef or rendering you unable to rape or pillage properly due a mystery illness, impediment or complex psychological disorder.

None of this went down well with the chronically superstitious and baffledVikings great sailors thought they undeniably were (discovering America before the Americans and Greenland before the colour ever existed or could be knitted into a nice pullover). As a result the Vikings avoided using lentils and went so far as to deny their very existence, this was reflected in them being removed in a cruel and ritualistic manner from songs, sonnets, great and epic tales and most soup recipes. The end had arrived for the lentils of the west lands, the rest as they say is some kind of history.

Editor's note: Loki is/was of course a Norse God and maybe didn't have much of a following in Denmark...or did he?

Better

“It’s all I ever think about, it’s all I ever think about.” That’s what she said, she kept repeating it, over and over, like some mantra, like a prayer, a quiet cry for help as she walked away. She was tall, attractive, troubled and I was intrigued. Those within earshot could not understand this mumbling, slowly ranting woman. None of us knew quite what she meant or understood. I was fascinated, briefly, eternally, questioning so I followed. Not something I was used to doing, not my normal behaviour, tracking a strange, disturbed woman, on the edge and striding away to deal with or confront that mysterious purpose. I kept what I considered to be safe distance, I let the crowds part before her, the lights change and the barrage of traffic get between us. I borrowed a technique I’d seen in a hundred movies, change pace, stop occasionally, look away. As if aware of my inexperience she steadfastly walked on, not looking back, not turning, allowing me the luxury of this temporary moving bubble. I was closing in, may be something would happen, a sudden stop, a meeting and perhaps I’d understand.

Fifteen long minutes passed and we were out of the business district, through a shopping centre and into an area of bars, cafes, street vendors and more shifting crowds. Her brown hair bobbed ahead of me, above, below, hidden as the Red Sea gaggle of pedestrians shifted, parted and closed in. I was still in the hunt. Left down a side street, right onto a busier one and then abruptly stopping, looking at her phone and sitting down quickly on a silver chair outside of a sprawling restaurant that opened onto the street. I stood still looking blankly into an opaque pub window, I stepped to the right and began to read a wall poster, she was still on the seat, now talking on the phone, her back to me, unaware. I moved carefully and as far as I was aware naturally towards where she sat. I noticed an empty seat in a table opposite and made a bee-line. Just as I crossed the pedestrian barrier a couple laden with shopping and embroiled in a vigorous conversation beat me to it and sat, absorbed in there discussion. I prepared to turn on my heels and retire, then I saw another space, vacated by a young suit, three tables away and facing her, perfect.

A waiter was by now at her table and she ordered something. Another waiter was now by my table, “coffee, a pot and a ginger cookie please.” An automatic order made as I looked across. Both our orders arrived a few minutes later, she had tea and water, I supped my coffee, she was still oblivious of me, her faithful and unfamiliar follower. Then from nowhere (well from the street ) another woman appeared and sat down quickly at her table, it was it some electric spark flashed between them and as I watched they seemed like a pair of some sort. Both were dressed smartly, business suits, one blue one grey, skirts and heels, both from the same office or business possibly. Handbags were strategically placed on the tabletop, they then both began to lean back, creating a battle space it seemed, staring at one another, like rival sisters about to quarrel over a lover or some long running family dispute.

I cupped my coffee with both hands and leaned as far forward across the table as I dared, straining for some snippet of conversation or vital word to be borne across to me, above the street noise and café chat but there was nothing recognisable that I could sift from the babble. Now they were speaking taking turns, animation seemed to be bristling, slowly building, even without the essential key of words I could unlock that much. Suddenly the other woman stood up and squarely slapped the other, the one I’d followed, rudely across the cheek. A shriek followed and an abrupt silence…every head turned their way, as you would expect. She stayed in her seat and bowed her head, the other woman took a step back and with a stiff back straightened up. Her voice rose up from the table, she sniffed and with a trembling and whispering tone said “But I’m wearing it better…”

They (may) mean us no harm

Fair and affordable: Watching the world pass under the very tip of your nose. Perhaps you are out and about, enjoying a drink and some relaxation. Then as you sip on your coffee and munch on your caramel biscuit you remember that these are not just people that you are watching. Many of them are in fact shape shifting alien lizard tourists from the future on holiday and participating sociological studies for long periods of their visit. They arrive through the numerous sink holes in the Pacific, transported by energy beams powered by captured solar winds. Then they absorb the look of the locals by a temporary regeneration process and mingle and interact as they gather data and unwind. They mean us no harm. You have thought about it for a while, how it really was and then you were distracted. It was a rather nice cup of coffee and the biscuit was crunch and tasty, the service was fine though there was something about the waitress, was she, could she be? You park that idea and enjoy the afternoon sunshine, overall the total experience was fair and affordable. You have a fresh thought, what kind of feedback do the lizards give after their holiday?

2520

There may be only 2520 Cougars 2.0 but at least the life cycle curve isn't sitting at too acute an angle just yet. Overall there are 9451 still around on the British highways and byways, they should last for a while but according the trends for other models when they do go the decline is rapid.

White Worm

It seemed like a normal tin of creamy, delicious macaroni and indeed that's exactly what it turned out to be. Curse you suspicious mind and suspicious nature. The poor can could never have known, never ever. It was gone in 120 seconds, a time that I do not believe to be a world record of any kind.

But then when I reached the bottom of the can, 121 seconds later I discovered to my horror that there at the bottom, at the deepest point of the 12oz tin there was, coiled up, a great white worm. The great white worm was thankfully asleep so very gently and carefully I reached in with two fingers and pinched it, just behind its mouth and I began to pull it out. I don't know if you've ever seen a great white worm but they can be huge, enormous. As I pulled it seemed to grow, in an exceptional and exponential manner. Thankfully it remained asleep as pulled the great lengths from the can, foot after foot of rich, slimy, wrinkled white worm. I had by now turned the can upside down and was letting the worm pour out, like syrup or condensed milk all across the floor in massive, sleepy wormy coils. It was at that moment I notice some small print running up the label on the side of the can, a statement that I had failed to read before opening the can:

“Caution, macaroni mined in a white worm friendly environment, frequent checks are made to ensure that multi-dimensional worms do not enter the can and cause cross-pollution but this manufacturer cannot guarantee 100% (or even 90%) that the purchaser and the end user will enjoy and fully worm free macaroni cheese eating experiences, we apologise in advance should you encounter a great worm or suffer contamination in the can sub-base area. Please call this number 0800 WORM WORM 1 should you require assistance or help with coiling and capturing a worm, many thanks for your patience in this instance and making this purchase in the first place.”

The worm was still sleeping, how helpful that was as the last strand plopped from the tin and onto the floor. A remarkable and wonderful mutation – and as it turns out delicious too. All you do is pop the worm into a (very) large casserole dish, season a little and drip and drizzle oil on it and bake in a hot oven at 200 degrees for about 40 minutes. Tasty and full of protein and all for the price of a can of macaroni.

Writing

Writing backwards

I was alone at the table, behind the wind screen in some payment café, no dogs allowed. The coffee was that warm, continental, granular dish water kind. Foggy on the top and hard to tell if there was any actual milk or cream in there. I supped it slowly and let the pieces of coffee dust swim around my mouth - it was a decent beverage and the cup was a warm and tactile one, thin edge and smooth china. I’d blocked out the traffic and passing pedestrians, the paper readers and the tourists, my focus would be the lined note book now placed between the coffee cup and the half eaten muffin on the too small plate. I had a nice pen, that’s always important. I picked it up in my left hand and removed the cap, allowing the nib to touch the paper.

I stared straight ahead, through the back of a diner’s head, past a lamp post and traffic sign, beyond the edge of a building, into a carved stone balustrade, over a suspended lamp and away into the distance where grey and brown stone building merged into a mess of hoardings and bus tops. My left hand, as if it had a left hand and mind of it’s own began to write. A scribbly, scrawny scrawl, an out of body mess of ink and paper while I gazed far and away and my unloved lesser hand did the work. Time had stopped, my thought processes had stopped but the hand continued to write.

I was asleep and in a dream, the coffee had dried the back of my throat but my transcendental peering into the abyss carried on and the hand wrote on, page after page, only stopping to allow the lazy right to turn the page to a fresh one when that was required. The was sweat on my brow and in both palms but the writing was over, the pen was rested and my hand returned the conscious control of my brain though I’m not sure which side.

I picked up the noted book and flicked across the pages…complete gibberish, well that was my first thought and then a pattern began to emerge…

Party over?

Some might think that the party is over and that we are at the end...well that's a fair enough proposition but not one that I share. I tend to see things more as a continuum, they just roll on, one thing into another, changing, blending, morphing always into something more interesting than before, better at times then maybe not so good. Don't be afraid of the change, the bigger numbers or just floating along with the current.

For a while I was absorbed in numbers, chasing them, making sense of them I thought, trying to understand where they might lead and looking for a deeper meaning. You can do all of that, it's ok, but it's not everything and never leads you to an end in itself. Ignore the numbers for a while, the scribbles and lines on the page or screen, let them go. The party can be over if you want it to be.

Overcome

High heeled shoes that could pierce your heart

“I can't just sip a drink, I can't just sit their looking at it or holding it letting it swirl around in the glass. I get nothing from admiring the colour or the bouquet, I don’t want it just to be sitting there dumb while I go about doing something else, maybe reading a book or in conversation. I can't do any of that, I have to drink it, in fact I'll start drinking it as soon as it's poured at the bar. I'll drink some, just to get it clear from the edge just in case I spill some on the way back to the table, at least that's what I try to make it look like. If I'm in a bar I'm there to drink, there I've said it.”

The speaker retreated from the spotlight and took a seat at the rear of the stage, a ripple of applause came back at him from the audience. It was a tough gig, sympathy was scarce, like a taxi after midnight, those well healed individuals knew what he was saying , he was one of them but they were reluctant to acknowledge his position or by any means show approval for all that had been said in the long speech. The event drew to a close and mumbled thanks drifted here and there, hands were shaken, men kissed the hurried cheeks of women wanting to be elsewhere, staff flipped chairs and nodded as they tidied things that needed tidied. The lights were slowly turned up, shadows left by any available exit, gold features, sculptures and drapes appeared from the gloom as the flood of the lamps passed over. All he could see were the backs of the audience, all now headed outside, clearing their heads and shouldering jackets and coats. Good to see them go.

Outside the regular patterns of rain were drumming onto car roofs, scattering umbrellas and glistening flagstones, the tropical rainfall covered his escape, back to the hotel, back to find some sanctuary, back to the bar. The lobby opened it's mouth into a dark jungle-wood panelled lobby, lights were dim, exits glowed green, shadows lurked away somewhere else and low piped muzak sax tried hard to create a civilised atmosphere. The bar was warm and smokey, unhealthy but welcome like a seat on a busy train. A waiter carried a tray of roast beef sandwiches across his advancing bows, mustard and horseradish wafted past. He laid the tray in front of a greasy, sun-glassed man nursing a glass of red wine. A girl sat beside him, black dress and fox fur jacket, buried by the moody shadow pool of a winged leather funeral chair. The buttons glinted in the amber glow. Quickly he caught the barman’s eye and pointed to the optic rack, “double please!” the barman nodded, “Room 230”. In a single sweet move he dropped his coat and picked up the glass and as was his habit took a mouthful. The hot buzz alighted briefly on tongue and throat, moved around his mouth like some spell looking for a victim and then he allowed the swallow. In his head, in his brain, at the core of some place between thoughts and soul another light began to glow. No instant light like an electric bulb, it was more of a rising, slowly throbbing flame, held in a lens, held in check but powerful enough to escape given the chance. It was about eleven thirty by this time.

Time passed like slow clockwork lubricated by maple syrup, he got up from the chair and signed the tab at the bar.

The call girl was walking towards him, blond hair and fox jacket and good times. Circles around her eyes, eye liner and care all mixed up, a cheek bruise. Somebody had given her a rough evening. Her high heeled shoes and low neck line could have pierced the hardest, stoneymost heart. She looked like she was afraid of everything. In her hand was a brandy glass, warm and golden, lipstick on the edges and two fingers of liquid left in it. As she passed she whispered, “I'm just dying for a drink”. There are hotel corridors and lobbys all across the world, places to relax, forget, travel and work in, just don't get caught in one like two ships in a fog.

“I don't care what country you think it is!” shouted the policeman, “this isn't there, this is here!' He fingered the gun in the black holster, he fingered the fabric of his trousers, he was sweating a mixture of used up rain and used up fear. “West Chesterton Hotel” he barked into the radio mike clip on his shoulder and looked ahead waiting on further instruction. The handset gave a tone and crackled, “Ok, let it go...over.” The policeman acknowledged the message swung on his heels and exited the bar, “don't know WHAT I'm here for!”

We all hear voices sometimes, none of them are God.

“I'm tellin' ya the only way that you can beat this thing is with a complete change of lifestyle, you need to get something else. Get religion, get fit, take up golf, find a good woman, find an interest that takes you and keeps you at least a thousand miles away from this. But you can't ever do it, all the people you know, all the circles you move in, all the beats you walk and streets you stumble into. Every gold plated excuse and reason that you try to dredge up to explain, they all come from the same source and you need to run in the opposite direction.”

“I can't just sip a drink...”

He called the lobby, “Taxi, charge it to Room 230, five minutes?” The call girl dragged on the fox fur and left the room, the brandy glass on the nightstand was empty now.

Hello Colombia

Colombia. An interesting place that I once visited about 12 years ago. The traffic and vapour filled atmosphere in Bogotá was, as I recall pretty intimidating as was the apparent threat of kidnapping. Of course nothing bad happened and I had a really enjoyable visit and was taken by the very kind and friendly attention I received from all those that I met. We stayed in the Tequendama Hotel which is something of a colonial and historic legend in itself. Spacious and cosmopolitan with a faded splendour and air of controlled decay about it, soldiers and suits were everywhere and the staff seemed panicky and overworked. The views from the roof over the city were impressive – I'll remember that for a long time. Though I was not actively participating in it the reason for the trip centred around a somewhat shaky religious quest and period of frustrated exploration. The shelf life of this topic ran out a long time ago but the pleasant memories of the thin air, happy yellow taxis, street vendors, steaks and tomatoes and hunger for American Dollars remains. Moving on leaves gaps but in time they are filled.