Saturday, October 13

Blow wind, blow

When I leave in the mornings it is dark and when I return home in the evenings it is dark. The streets in the morning are quieter; fewer cars with quieter engines, fewer people with newspapers under their elderly arms. In the morning, regardless of what the weather will be for the rest of the day, a very fine rain falls. It is so fine that it is a mist, highlighted in yellow by streetlights that still shine at that hour. I like that time of the morning. I am not pestered as I walk to the train station. It is a time of collection, when I can linger in a hungover-dream, and smoke my first cigarette and be good and alone on those streets. I watch the time so that I don’t miss my train; that is the only thing I don’t like about those walks. Cold, crisp, dying smell in the air. Leaves say good-by to their branches. I am alive and it is surely autumn. A wind darts into my breast. Sometimes the day brightens. It goes to show, you never can tell. A bright sun, as eager as she is in April, warms the land. Small shadows of buildings fall on adjacent buildings that I see from the office window I look out of – and look out I do. The cold wind and my cigarettes still have me coughing so that colleagues tell me to shut up. Some mornings, after drinking & writing into the night, I find myself tired and ready to give up. All I need is a coffee, so I visit a cafĂ© with K—. We try to get a window seat where we can look out at the wind fumbling with peoples’ clothes and the puddles stamped up by hurried heels. It’s all a good sight. I think she appreciates it, too.
That is all there is.
I am alone and I am enjoying autumn.
As nighttime sweeps away the landscape I am forced to recognise where my train is by small lights on the horizon. I recognise as many lights as I can to ascertain where I am; a bus depot, an abandoned car-park, sugar refinery, a police station, nearby seaside town, a tall pylon, a book distribution centre, a wasteland. I see them all and I know where I am. I curl my knees up on the seat in front of me, read, and wake the drunks when we get to the last stop – I tell them where we are and they thank me. In the bars I mostly stand by and listen. I stare at the women. Some are such perfect and immaculate sculptures of stardust that I loathe them, then I realise that, from the men around them, they are doomed too, and everything is fair. On rainy London streets I smoke my cigarette before I go back in. Someone is buying me drinks in there; everything is fair. The beautiful women come and go, walk in circles, display themselves, shake their tail feathers. This is what it’s all about. In a way, I am distant from it and, at times, I feel somewhat sexless. But it’s all good fun. I make out the distorted banter of a geordie and laugh as his mad eyes set on mine. We are just yards from where the great fire of London started. We’re still going.
I am writing prose but feel like maybe my voice is poetry. When I make pastrami sandwiches I wonder how many poems I’ll have to write before I have a book. Then I sit down with some wine and try to write the worst love story ever. Outside the rain is going again. I hear it on the pane, the sill, the street. I love it tenderly because when it is on my fingertips I lick it up like it is a woman’s come. The people in the city walk very slowly. I jump into the road and run along it. Rain and wind pelt my cheeks. I sing my music, fag hanging from my mouth and overtake them all and I feel nothing less than a god. I tell myself that one day everything will be over and the Australian girl with dreadlocks tells me – ‘Take it. They fucked up your name.’ Flashes of rain, flashes of shine. Autumn, continue.

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