Tuesday, January 29, 2008

Work In Progress - Quick Update

I is laying in the sun, feeling its warmth spread over me, a heat I ain’t felt in long ago time. I bathing in it, letting its radiance thaw out my bones. Now a clear, warm rain is falling on me, like showering morning-time. I dreaming. I not want to wake, but laughter draws me to consciousness.
When I do come to I’m not sunbathing, not showering. I’m surrounded, grinning faces, black boots, denim all around. They aren’t here to help me, to be nice. Song runs through my head and I can’t resist a whistle even as the first kicks arrive like London buses: in threes. Singing: “There may be trouble ahead, but while there’s music and moonlight and love and romance.” Not the latter, though. Anything but. I close my eyes, try to picture Nat King Cole singing smooth on telly-vision, but the pain starts to bring me back to…
Subway, cardboard, half-empty bottle of something caustic yet alcoholic. That’s where I am. Fenced in a ring of boots, of fists and violence. After numerous kicks, punches and a smattering of urine streams hitting my face it stops and I’m somewhere between sleep and consciousness again, but the reverie of Nat has gone, the sun has passed behind a black cloud and won’t come out again until it feels the morning calling it.

It’s strange, really weird: you’d think that a beaten old man like me might get more change in his cup; you’d think that people would feel pity, see that life can be cruel, perhaps even help that beaten person report incidents to the police, but no. See, the police were my antagonists not louts, youths, lads, kids; hoodies as referred to in large print headlines – for the hard of seeing so they can understand that the world is to be feared. Life ain’t what you think, what’s reported. You try living it, just once. Reckon you’ll be shrinking back under your rocks, in your shells, behind your doors; pretty darn quick.
So would I, choices be provided.
What you won’t be doing is throwing pretty circles of metal into a poly-something cup. Dried blood is scary, a concept not seen in the ‘burbs where they prefer to sweep their hideousness beneath carpets imported from Turkey or Iran, or wall-to-wall plush pile. Not even my girl comes to cheer me today. P’raps she’d not recognised me? The suck-cess-full success from long time-back. Me, the high-flier touching down.
Or maybe I’m still in the throes of a crash-landing?


purplesimon said...

Had this sitting in my documents, but no time to re-draft it.

Long way to go, but got this edited down and thought I should post again before February arrives.

Perhaps something different soon. A new thread. A break from this. So much on and so little time to concentrate on it all.


purplesimon out...

ginab said...

There's a nice turn in the last question, and given the turn I no longer wonder over my instinct to ask: have you considered writing this out as a poem?

Another reason I ask is the voice is lovely to be authentic (tho nix 'on' for 'upon') but it does lose this, that I think if you lined it out as a poem you'd discover the break from an authentic voice to a more general, from no place or class or era specifically, voice; more, you'd fill up the lines with even more authentic 'who' and from there you can move it back over into story. Now, of course, it's more a monologue which is a third reason I can think of to encourage you to line it up poem-like.