The Pure Life of Dreams

April 9, 2022June 7, 2024

Browsing Bric-a-Brac Stalls on an Old Market Day

I am walking up a hill, a sunlit morning with an old market day feel. I pass by stalls with a variety of wares laid out when I am I stopped by a seller with brown leather hat and neck strap, auburn hair waved across wide shoulders, a hardy weather beaten face. She wears a thick white shirt with sleeves rolled up to her elbows revealing sunburnt arms, faded blue tattoos.

She admires my watch. Can I see that? she asks, and I take it off so that she can get a closer look.

April 8, 2022October 22, 2022

Killer to be Interred Needs Temporary Resting Place

The killer was put to death and will be interred. But first he must be housed in a temporary coffin next my mother’s bed in her jail cell in Coring Road. Her bed is in the corner of the room and it would separate her from the next bed over.

That’s not very nice, I think. I imagine a large yellow canister like casket looming over her bed. Dwarfing her own bed.

March 31, 2022October 22, 2022

Family Drive in the Country Turns Irritating

I take the short cut through the neighbor’s Tudor built house. They haven’t caught us walking through their house before, and it is the convenient route to the back of our house; but I always feel a little bit guilty doing it.

This time however, as I sneak along their low ceilinged back hall, an ill-fitting pine wood door ahead on the right creaks open slightly. It leads to the study and I won’t make it to the back door in time. Then out comes a man in round metal rim glasses; he has short black hair, a bowl haircut.

The man looks straight at me, no expression, and I slink out his without saying a word. As I enter the back door to our mud room, I think to lock our door. Usually we leave it open but this time I turn the key already in the keyhole and cry out to the front of the house.

“Ok, we are ready to go!”

Finally. We are off to a restaurant but Lizzie is already grumpy. She does not want to go. She gets in the back on the driver’s side and I sit with her on the right. Liam is front passenger side and Siobhan is driving.

We are arguing god knows about what.

And when Lizzie gets in she leaves the door wide open. It is the 1992 black Mercedes with black leather and red trim and the rear doors are from the low and wide sports model.

Siobhan drives off, with Lizzie’s door still wide open.

“Shut. The. Door,” I say through through griiteed teeth.

“Why does it matter?” Lizzie quips, “nobody is passing us.” as we pull out from the driveway.

When we come to an intersection she finally reaches out and pulls the door shut. Then Siobhan pulls over. Sharply she stops, tight against a hedge of brown wheatgrass.

“I cannot take it anymore,” she says as she puts her head in her hands. She is half crying. She gets out silently and comes round the back. I squeeze out despite the wheatgrass and we swap places.

In the driver’s seat look to the right at the wing mirror. It is bent forward after hitting a lamppost to the side of the hedge. (By rights it should have been bent back). And I lower the right side window.

“Liam, can you pull it back into position?”

He pulls it towards him without making a sound and the mirror returns to its natural position without breaking.

But Lizzie has pushed the car door wide open again. I know better than to comment. Instead I pull the car out, car door still open, and up to the junction so we can turn right and back onto the route. As we reach the stop sign a red and white open top convertible overtakes on the left veering wide to avoid Lizzie’s open door. The driver looks back at us quizzically, Lizzie is sheepish in front of a stranger, and she leans out again to pull the door shut.

“Ok, where am I going?” I say, as I make the turn and start along the country road.

“Just go back where we came.” says Siobhan.

I turn right.

“If I do that I will just be going round in circles.”

Then I turn right another time, more to make the point than because it is the right direction.

“I cannot get my phone out of my jeans pocket while I am driving,” I add, though this has not stopped me before.

“Just a minute,” says Siobhan through gritted teeth as she pulls up navigation.

Image by Stux from Pixabay

March 22, 2022July 31, 2025

Quit? Then You Need a Place to Stay and Money

I have quit my job, everything, and am traveling with nothing but the thick dark blue shirt on my back and mustard colored shorts. I am on a boat, I think a fishing boat or cargo boat, with heavy iron doors in the hold which, when slid shut, close with a clang.

The boat is Chinese owned and heavy with the air of grease and dirt from the toil of fisherman and ferry workers. A dim light below deck reflects off dark girders; off the water sloshed across the floor to clean out the discarded catch.

I liked it, liked being back. It was where I was meant to be. Siobhan would never understand. I felt laden with sweat and grease too and it was OK. The rub of sweat clung in black shavings to my collar, to my cloying shirt sleeves and the hem line of my shorts.

When the boat pulled in, I saw we were at Yung Shue Wan and my first point of order was to find a place to stay.

I had not arrived to see Dee. I didn’t want to see her, preferred to avoid her if possible, I just wanted to be back in Hong Kong.

The passenger deck disembarked first, locals disgorged over a shifting iron ramp and on to the pier. And I walked with them, passed newly built single room lodgings lining the pier’s left side. They were constructed with heavy bamboo, frames and doors, painted dark red; they looked rough but good to stay in as a last resort. Plus the rooms did not have much privacy; I could peer in through the bamboo slats, and each had a timer above the doorway that showed the price by the minute.

Further along, there were gathering rooms, also for rent, the same heavy bamboo construction, also dark red. But these included a four person table where you could sit at a window and look out at the pier.

At the far end and now on land, I stepped up to some more familiar restaurants; grey concrete floors, twin tables scattered, two café chairs per table. And right in front of me, at an open café, at their tables pressed together, I saw Oliver sitting with a person I did not recognize.

I cannot believe it, that you are here, I said to Oliver as I looked down at him.

He said the same back.

I knew I looked shabby from the traveling and from the fact that I had nothing on me.

He stood up, and the other man moved over to make room.

Oliver was still Oliver; tall, with short curly hair and a languid style that made him popular with the girls, although now he had a few reddish locks in with the dark.

He buried me in his arms, and I pressed him back in a huge hug. And he even kissed me, almost on the mouth, before he sat back down.

His friend said, You look exhausted.

And I did indeed look weary, tired. I felt the weight of my shirt.

Oliver turned to his friend, don’t worry about him, he has the money.

To make it light I said, I have a few pesetas, yes.

What are pesetas? he replied.

I thought to reply, and so too did Oliver but then we thought better of it.

Photo by Anne Roberts via Flickr

March 16, 2022March 20, 2024

A Trip to the Game Provides a Detour

The four of us are off to see England play at Wembley. And this time I have also brought Mama with me. I park the car in the daily parking lot and we walk some distance to the looming grey stadium before ascending to find our seats.

We climb high up into the rafters but the view is constrained by thick mud brown walls and brick sized holes through which you must look. Otherwise, to see the game, you can leave your seat and go to the balcony to peer over.

“Neither view is good, it never is.” I explain. “You are there for the atmosphere more than anything else.”

We walk around but there is not much to see regardless of which brick hole you look through. It is difficult to view more than a small rectangular patch of green at a time. And the players don’t come into the field of vision. It was the same view the last time I came, and I wonder if I could have paid for better seats.

When the game is over we get into the elevator to return to the car, however somehow we are now separated. It is only Mama, Lizzie and I left. Siobhan and Liam are gone.

I press the button to go to the ground floor. Supporters are getting off at different floors, but we have pressed a different button, a button wider than the others; and instead of depositing us at the bottom, the elevator slides onto a rail road track, and rolls out into the open.

I recognize that we are in Boston, and still stuck in the elavator car, which is clearly taking us to its home for its regular cleaning and service. Above us, either side of the tracks, are silver grey skyscrapers and in front, the leafy green elm trees of Boston Common. When the elevator arrives at its destination, it is at a place called Waystar. I need to get back to Siobhan and Liam. Siobhan will worry about us.

The manager, a portly man with ruddy cheeks, comes out of his office to greet us. “Sorry about that. You didn’t press the wrong button did you?” The office is a wooden shed inset by the front gates to the service station.

“No we didn’t press the gold one, just the white, ground floor button,” I replied.

“Well here is a card for a free dry cleaning service,” he says, as he pulls out a large blue tag from his thick woolen jacket and hands it over.

“No, we are only in Boston for a visit, we don’t need that. We just need to get back home.”

“Ok,” he says, and he hands me a brown skinned wallet. I open it. ”Don’t worry, there is enough in there.” I see a fair number of bills in the pocket fold.

“Thanks,” I reply.

We leave through the gates and head for the metro.

“Lizzie, take care of Mama,” I tell her, as Mama wanders off like a bird, taking little bird steps, one foot in front of the other, like a metronome, without pause. Lizzie steers her down the dark grey steps of the metro, taking care that she doesn’t fall. She nudges her gently to adjust her direction on each turn down to the platform.

Finally I can call Siobhan to say we are on our way.

Picture by Alexius Horatius, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons