Tuesday, June 19

Fucking Skyscrapers

When the weather is like this, it seems a shame to suffer. As much as I am a sucker for winter, I adore the summer; of all its charms, it is the light I like most of all. I was down by Victoria Docks when I remarked to my friend and colleague—‘You notice that, because there’s no tall buildings here, light actually touches the ground?’ He said, ah, yes, you’re right. ‘Weird, isn’t it? Everything is more colourful, rather than being in the shade from all those fucking skyscrapers.’ It was colourful. We walked side by side and the colours sung.
I am in a mood and I don’t know why. It happens, of course it does, and I don’t know why. It is a crippling mood. Staring out of the window at the world, I feel apart. All I want is to be alone. This is a mood suited to another season. Winter, with its darkness and chill, is, by design, absolutely fitting for this mood. What is there to do? I drink and I play guitar and I stare out of the window. There is a couple playing badminton in the road. They hit the shuttlecock back and forth; puckpuck and I gazed enviously. This couple in a stage of love played badminton in the street, pausing for cars to pass and angular in the sunlight.
Give me some happiness so that I may not waste this summer in a mood.
‘What you doing Sunday?’ she asked.
‘Why?’
‘You know why. Just an hour. Not late. An hour on Sunday, around half-seven?’
It’s nice to just be alone, though. I thought of what she could do to me and I thought of what I would do to her, but I declined. She stormed off. It is a shame. I like her. I like what she does to me and I like what I do to her. I spent Sunday night alone. The clock came to half-seven. It is half-seven now, I thought. What would we be doing now? It was nice to be alone.
My mother’s guest bed is too firm. There is no give in that mattress and it reminds me of ex-lovers. It is difficult to sleep in that bed, so I listen to the radio and lie there, not quite together with my surroundings. The smell is my mother’s laundry. There is nothing quite like it; sweet, citrus – the colour green – and cleanliness. I roll around and puffs bloom around my nose – Ah, and I took this smell for granted before … or did she change detergents? I wonder, looking at the ceiling. And it is so soft, the linen. The linen is so soft and my body is nowhere else; my mind afloat.
The sun is so fierce. I go for a cigarette after a glass of orange juice—‘Is it hot out there?’ I tell her that it is, although I am dressed in black. Everything is colourful. I had been lying in bed listening to the world having a phone conversation outside my open window; a cool breeze that twitched the blinds and a phone conversation. I wanted to be back in bed. I wanted to be with my family, with people. It was a shame to suffer. I had a beer. When that didn’t work, I had another. It was a shame to be with my mother in the summer and in such a mood. It was a shame.

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