Sunday, 19 July 2015
Friday, 27 March 2015
David really isn't sleeping too well. His foot hurts and he's worried about his tax return. He hasn't read a good book for months, and he's thinking maybe he's been reading them wrong. Is that a thing? fuck, I bet that's a thing. He's ugly too, he often tries to imagine what life would be like if he were less ugly, quite a bit less, sort of closer to plain, he always tells himself to stop it. Some birds just hatch ugly, lots do, it's not important, although, really, the company line sort of sticks there. He breaths out slow, shakes his head and walks his ugly walk. He's waddling through London Fields, hoping maybe he'll see something, anything, in himself that he's previously missed. He pays special attention to his shadow. He doesn't really do mirrors any more, they make him sick; so instead he studies his shadow, that softer mirror, and surveys old footprints for clues. It's no good though. Deep down in his worm riddled guts he know's enough to know he's nothing.
Feet planted, David leaves his shadow for the sky, angling his gaze upward: and in the boughs of this huge nude tree that with but a few weeks will be dressed in soft greens, he sees a bigger-hearted bird content to just sit, relax, and occasionally drop wet white streaks to land in the hair of some lucky number passing under the branches.
Bikes whistle past, kids call their dogs and smokers pretend they’re not dying. Early spring in London Fields bustles, but not David, he just stares up into the tree. Wonder. Awe. His foot hurts, it does that sometimes; so eventually he urges it forward and follows it home. He could fly, but he'd rather not - it's a loping, ugly thing his wings tend to do, it's not so much fit for crowded parks.
That bird, he thinks, hobbling back to the bridge he nests beneath, why's it so easy for him? Once, just once I'd love to drop a fresh wet shit on some hundred-pound haircut. He wont though, not ever, he's just not very good at being a pidgin. It’s OK, he says, some birds just aren’t.
Monday, 26 January 2015
Steam spirals up from her cup, curling like incense. Morning sun paints the room as a child would a treasure trove and it strikes me that this can’t be real and absolutely has to be: somehow, quite easily, even her morning coffee, untouched on the bedside table, is beautiful.
The frost at the window is receding and she’s shifting in the sheets and talking about a walk. We’ll go somewhere, someplace new, but first we’ll drink coffee and fool around and shower together. Some days, Sundays, stood in the doorway, watching the steam spiral, I boggle at what trick of time and space and luck and fate, what raw mathematics, placed this woman in my bed.
I'm dizzy again, but slow moving morning words wake me up; she wants to know what’s wrong. Dumb, I just smile and shrug, she says "come here ya wacker," and I do.
Friday, 16 January 2015
For more than a year I’ve been serving sharks, stingrays, stonefish, jellies and the cheap feeders that follow. The pay is pretty skinny, but I can walk to work and they feed me for free. It’s ok.
I wake up early, before the fish, and ready the cafe while it’s dark outside. In the hour before opening, with a thermometer I survey and document the temperature of the fridge, the freezer and multiple burley-churners - most of these documents I falsify. I update the specials board. I clean and empty the rust tumbled Skin n’ Filth Filter. And when there’s time, I practice applying balm and bandage for potential/imminent stings, bites and dismemberments.
At five to seven, just before we open for business, the LBFS (Last Breath For Staff) bell rings. I expel all the old air from my body in a slow hiss until I’m dead ballooning - like the manual demands; then I steady and gulp the greediest gulp of breath a boy can grab, swallowing it deep down into my guts - this will have to last me the day. I strap a CSBB (Company Standard Bowling Ball) to my right ankle, a CSBB to my left ankle and switch on the lights designed to attract big fish. Exactly two minutes after the LBFS sounds there is a gurgle, distant deep and wet, followed fast by a heavy crash of dense wood meeting steel and then the great compression comes: oceans of fat wet water falling from some height, exploding into itself and expanding, ever expanding, the relentless feeding frenzy of salt water devouring the insides of this aquarium. Once each floor fills to the brim a trapdoor opens and the gush continues in a rush, down to the next level to rinse hard and repeat. My cafe waits at the bottom of ten stories, so the water, when it arrives down there is heavy. Buoyancy wants badly to drag me up and away from the coffee machine, the chowder, the little cakes and the counter, and float away I would, if not for the two CSBB’s attached to my ankles.
I’ll be honest, watching that body of water explode around the room, eating all the air and enveloping e v e r y t h i n g can be a little unnerving, so to stay calm as the water rises, I close my eyes, tense my tummy and inwardly run the company line: look at you, you beautiful fish, you better wetter fish, when you’re not here I’m nowhere. Repeat.
Service is the same, day to day. I dish towering scoops of rioting maggots straight down the gob of pushy tuna and snarky bass, while for the orcas I flay baby seals before their beady eyes and toss the grizzly snack their way with nervous fingers - you don’t want to lose your pinky twice, that’s what I’m saying. Each day has it’s snippy crab and bullish shark. Each day has it’s injury and it’s insult. Still it has it’s soft spots too, like after lunch when the sharks are sleeping and the salmon are spawning and the stonefish are off setting traps, then the cafe falls quiet. No noise save the low rumble of the Skin n’ Filth Filter and that slow pulse in my temples. No one around, so I sneak a paperback from beneath the counter, check the coast is clear, and proceed to suck sweet clean air out of each soaking page. I’m not sure how it works, but I’m alive because it does.
This week I handed back my twin CSBB set, my wetsuit and my seal-skinning knife. I'm leaving. I wonder if the fish will notice. I doubt it. I wonder if I'll remember this place in five years, or just the books I breathed though. I wonder if they'll clean the aquarium.
Thursday, 8 January 2015
i leave off from the traffic, left and then left to stroll past this soft lit boozer i’m fond of, down this still street i’m keen on. my careful steps crack the silence but never break it; steady, still, step, still. and taller than me, well out of reach, a gelatine glob of light sticking to the street lamp lends the street an underwater feel. it’s quiet here, and i, diver, deep sea diver, i know this lonely layer of sunken city like the back of the back of my hand, i hold it there in fact: a soggy little snow dome no one else can see. i linger here as day-old apathy turns into something very different, i’ll remember this when i’m old, maybe, i think to myself. glug glug glug, up go the bubbles those silent words were born in, back up to the surface, up above tree tops and chimneys, up to the light polluted skyline of a city that exists inside and outside the known universe. a kid rides past on his bike, oblivious. some dog barks, another joins in, and i float on home, left through the alley at the end and back to my busy road and bitter breeze that runs along it.