Pages

Thursday 31 January 2008

snow face

high up in the hills. A road winds below us but there are no cars on it. We are all alone, the only movement is the slow turning of the wind mills above us. Gigantic shafts of metal swoop elegantly through the air, they are slow and seemingly unstoppable. They pull energy out of the air and wind it over and over between the metal meshing of cogs until it is caught and changed, pinned into battery acid and potential. Everything is white. Snow on the ground, snow in the air, white towers of metal. Snow covers the 20 hill tops I can see when I turn in a circle. Our red faces and black jackets would mark us out as ants from the air. We are building a snowman that no-one else will ever see. He has stumps for hands, a face made out of sheepshit and a huge spiky mohican. We've been working on it for so long that we've stopped talking. The snowman has taken over, he's all we can concentrate on. The panorama of hills and snow reduces in focus to this small hilltop where we pack more and more snow onto our creation. Smooth his chest, whiten his face, pack his mohican spikier and taller. More snow starts to fall and it swirls delicately around the flushed face of the man I love. We work together on our task.

We are the only people in the world.

Wednesday 30 January 2008

the time I was nearly royalty

so the piano playing in the previous post reminded me of a really good memory at the start of my trip to Milan.

Staff night out the night before. The usual boring meal, tinkle talk and compliments on the food. The boss gets over excited and flushed. Not her fault, she's got a kid and doesn't get out much. Then we walk down the street, strain off the parents and oldies and it's on to the main event - double rum and cokes and bullshit at the bar. Riff with the leather dreadlocks guy and flirt with the stripy hoodie. Would do either, might do both, will probably end up with neither. The bouncers don't like my mates face so we walk head first into the sea blasts and go to the castle. Drink, drink, drink, drink, drink more and I end up at a house in town at 7 am with the dreadlock guy holding my hand under the table while I watch the uptight office girl smoking weed through a potato pipe.

Wake up at midday. BAMM. My fucking head is split in two. Roll off the bed and roll into the clothes from the nights before. I can hardly see as I stagger round the house, shouting cunt at the top of my voice is the only thing that makes me feel better. Films, cameras, passport and tickets; in a bag with some pants and a hat for luck. Bristol airport. Fuck, I'm so late. I should have left at 11. Plane at 4. Fuck, fuck fuck. Drive like a mentalist down the motorway, screech into the long stay car park, all the stuff falls out of my bag. I'm standing shaking as the security guard pats me down. If she touches my stomach I'm gonna puke on her. Get to the departure gate. 5 minutes to go. Sleep on the plane, 3 seats for myself, 2 hours later and I'm in Milan.

I've gone through tired and into wired. Walking isn't an effort any more but I still don't know where I'm going. Not booking anything seemed like such a good idea when I was at home but now it's 22.30 in a big city and I've got nowhere to go. Hotel? First one I see? Fake wood reception and plastic plants? Starched white impersonal sheets and a pastel picture on the wall. Not worth my money. Don't know where you are until you open the curtains in the morning. Fucking rip offs. I ain't paying for a plastic experience. So where am I going to go then? Eat. I need food too. The only food place I've seen so far was the McDonalds by the station entrance. Fuck that too.

I'm walking towards a restaurant, it has a long piece of red carpet leading to the door - they do that in Milan - and a little lit up menu on the wall. Inside the door is a pyramid of fruit, dripping with grapes and a multi-colour feast of fish on ice. Damm, too much money. I walk away. Then stop. Then come back. Fucking insecure, indecisive self.

Walk in, I hold up a single finger and I'm ushered to my seat. I don't want to be English so I change into a mute. Point to the menus, point to the bread. Smile, make lots of eye contact. Point to the wine list. My stomach is violently rejecting the thought of more booze but I force down the start of a bottle of merlot. And sit. And look around. And realise that I'm in a beautiful, calming place. The room is white with a high ceiling. There are mad pictures of the characters from the Matrix made out of tiny, sparkly black and silver squares hanging all over the place. At the end of the room is a huge grand piano and someone is playing it. They're playing beautiful music and as I listen to it I feel all the tension of the last 24 hours fall away. My shoulders feel lighter, my head comes up and the crippling hangover, the drive to the airport, nearly missing the flight, not bringing any spare clothes, no hotel.......blah, blah, blah. They all float away. I sit for what seems like two hours, eating my meal as slowly as possible. I feel like a queen, I've never eaten a meal to piano music before. (What a fucking chav. I also used to think eating a Vienetta was a sign of class when I was about 12 or so). Anyway, so the beautiful meal comes to an end. The bill? Enough to pay for a plastic hotel room but what I got instead was better. Better than I'd have got from a snotty receptionist, tiny bottles of shampoo and wipe clean upholstery. I feel reborn.

I take the half bottle of wine with me as I leave the table and walk down the road. No idea where I'm going, I walk round Milan for a while and watch the nightlife. Black, white and beige. Monochrome and stylish is how people live round here. I sit down on some stone steps, scooted up against a pillar. People can see me if they look but I'm out of eyeline so they don't often turn their heads. My face is hidden under my collar anyway so I don't feel too exposed. I sit for what feels like hours smoking rollies and drinking wine. Then, when I feel tired I lean over and hook the PVC cover off the stairlift next to me. It won't offer too much protection from December weather but it will at least be some kind of windbreak. I get sleep. Of sorts. Once or twice footsteps come close enough to make me worried but the empty bottle is close enough for me to smash if I need to go psycho on their asses.

Sleep, wake, sleep, wake, sleep, wake. Finally it seems light enough for me to get up. Empty streets and I walk in circles for a while until I find where I am on the map. Next step? Find an internet cafe and find a hostel.

Memory ends.

ten thousand meanings

In my cupboard in the kitchen sits a small pot. I am idly filling it with mustard seeds. There are some potatoes in the corner of the cupboard that have started to sprout pale shoots in the warm dry darkness.

It's a Wednesday afternoon and I am wearing my hair in a new style. It makes me nervous and I keep adjusting the band, pulling it straight, pushing it off my forehead - trying to keep it as good as it looked for that second of perfect pose in the mirror 3 hours earlier.

A boy comes into the thin, dimly lit room. He says hello to me but that's it. That's ok, I know he's shy. He sits down at the piano and starts to play. His fingers are long and thin and they are producing beautiful music. I am entranced. I slow my movements as I listen and half turn towards him. I've seen him a few times in the house and I kinda like him. Once I was reading a book on the stairs when he came out of the shower. He smiled really wide when he saw me. Once I saw him on the street and I winked at him cos I was in a good mood and feeling a bit cheeky - sometimes winking is a bit easier than saying hello anyway. Years of accquaintance can be distilled into a little head nod. This guy rents me the internet time that I'm typing this on - but we've never had a conversation because I know he's shy.

So I'm trying to think of what I can say about his piano playing, wondering what I'm going to say when he finishes, when suddenly he gets up and walks out of the room. That's it, he's gone; mid tune. Interaction over. How strange. I imagine a hundred different ways to interpret that scene. What if he was expressing his desire to talk to me by playing the piano. Maybe this is the start of a grand and beautiful love story, played out in the top and bottom rooms of a shabby shared house by the sea. How will we start talking? Where would we be when we first kissed? He's got nice eyes. Why did he leave so abruptly like that? Is there something he wants to say to me or is it just that I fancy him a bit? I think I fancy him a bit.

Thursday 3 January 2008

romance in red spray paint

So the fair's on and I'm invited. I come with my mates and he comes with his. Someone is fool enough to offer round a full pack of L+B. Gone. Hyena laughs and monkey punches. Street strutting and shoulder rolling but we walk a bit slow and everyone melts away. It's weird for a bit but a can of Stella makes the talking come easier. Lights blur, colours whirl and the waltzers make the world spin. I remember the poppers I nicked out of my sisters bedroom. Yes! Everything turns into a smear of lights and noise, all except the feel of his leg pressing against mine. The ground comes towards me and we're stumbling off; laughing away. Crouch down, skin up and now we're too fucked to hook ducks so he nicks me a fluffy tiger instead. Leg it round a corner pissing ourselves and all of a sudden there it is. Our first kiss. My heart goes skipping, jumping, banging and clattering so fast that i have to leg it again to keep up. Run. Cold lips, sharing chips, grease on my fingers and hot vinegar breath. We sit behind the car park and tell each other about our dads. Wind blows through me and hits the concrete. We're kissing again. My head spins and I am lost. Mouth, lips, tongue, fingers fumble, clothes rustle, belts clink. I can only feel myself in the places where we are touching. His knee is hard between my legs and I am pressed up against the wall. It hurts a bit but it's kind of nice. Hours pass but really it's only minutes. Damm, I'm going to miss my lift. It's really hard to stop touching him. We get to the car. One more second before I get into the back seat bubble of giggles, candy floss and fags. I love you. Yeah I love you too. See you tomorrow.