Sunday, 8 April 2012

SNIPPETS - Same planet. Worlds apart


Some times.  I am motion.  Less.  Even.  The earth orbits oblivious to a trillion tiny tragedies.   

I stand.  I see.  I hear.

Cars dance around an imaginary roundabout.  A blackbird sings its dusk-at-a-petrol-station song.  Invisible metal cuts white scars into the fabric of the sky.  End chasing beginning.  Three beuniformed girls screech with glee like gulls swooping to swipe vinegary chips from polystyrene trays as they mercilessly tease an awkward emo boy to establish their primate hierarchy.  The starling chorus drowns out the humdrum of traffic like a swarm of locusts laying, nay flying siege to a gutted hutted village.  Mahogany topped plumpy estate dwellers continue to pay through the nose to ruin their feet in collapsed heel Ugg boots.  An NHS nurse runs a race with a bus and wishes she had some proper support.  The man in the vest overtakes me pushing a pram with his right hand staring off into the distance to distance himself from the hysterical newborn cry within (he keeps walking and I have to make a call to check what I should be doing).  Abandoned dead skin cells collect between the bottles on the wine shelves of the co-op.  The evening smells of eighties fairgrounds and would smoke.  I have to wear my shades to shield my mascara stained already black circles from my species.

In the vicinity of the launderette the city air smells clean and fresh while its machines are busy imparting musty smells.  They spit out their contents, yours, sour on the seams.  MO of the eponymous MacDo, whose dirtier scents scout out those more susceptible, entering their nostrils like a ghost in a shell and squeezing the modicum of resistance juice from their modest brains.  A friend of mine once said life was like a Mackey D’s, no flavour and where’s the cheese.  Unless I misunderstood.

An open packet of Diazepam lies on a wall next to a phone box.  Nearby raised voices through an open window and the sounds of old skin to young skin contact.  

When I am poised to become part of the scene I feel like a red hot chilli pepper.  My slipped knee caps go wobblier and I start to perspire particles of sweat, piercing through my skin like tiny blades.  Blood draws to the surface but doesn’t venture beyond.  The wound is merely metaphysical.  I only forgot my wallet for christsakes.  No biggie.  But it makes me feel so human.  Alike.  Involved.  Vulnerable. Fallible.  Extinguishable.  And later, when he holds me in tattooed arms and I unleash, I have to avert my eyes, burry my face, ashamed and afraid of revealing the rawest emotions to even those I trust.

Everything appears normal, familiar.  Just tiny tragedies.  And monumentous ones

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Wow, this really draws me in. Love how the text pulls between grandiose observations and the mundane ones. And how the intricate surveillance of your surroundings leached whilst you were creating the text makes the description buzz, crawling with detail.
Very talented lady x