The Pure Life of Dreams

April 26, 2022October 22, 2022

Business Trip Embedded in a Book

I was visiting a town in the Northeast for work.

When I was driving on a cobbled stone part of town, I decided to detour to the well known pier. I headed towards the entrance and recognized a woman from the hotel, saw her park outside, instead of driving onto the pier. Then she walked away from her car, a beige dress. She was middle aged, my age.

I too stopped in front of the pier, and fortuitously found a space opposite her car, a few yards from the entrance. Then I followed her to the kiosk to buy my ticket and stepped in to look at the exhibits.

“The Lord of the Admiralty was forced to decide to be promoted as part of the nascent US fleet or stick with the British. He resigned his post instead.” I read on the plaque of a tired display of personal belongings, next to a dummy showing his uniform and cap.

The woman had moved on from the display, and I too walked further along.

The pier was covered. In fact it resembled the hull of a boat. You could peer out of the sides, through portholes at the water down below. And from one porthole I saw a freshly dead deer, the back of its body, it’s tawny fur still glistening against the lap of the water.

How did it get down there? I wondered.

But when I stepped out from the covered part of the pier, I saw that the deer was actually alive, was standing on a sliver of rock and craning its neck out to catch chunks of bread that a group of tourists were throwing at it.

I sat down on a bench back in the covered side of the pier.

And a young woman with pale white skin and short cropped black punk hair, a black choker around her neck sat with me. We kissed briefly. I was conscious of my breath and pulled away reluctant to continue. Besides we had little in common.

It seemed that if you sat around long enough you would always meet someone.

After the young woman left I fell into a deep sleep against a setting sun and when I woke up I exclaimed, ”Wow! I have been asleep for hours!”

At first I calculated 8 hours and it felt great to have slept so long. But then I recalculated it at maybe 4; it was still great to have rested even that much.

I reopened my disheveled Sherlock Holmes book; or was this now my dream within my dream?

A woman next to me. Is she the same woman with the beige dress, who sits with her husband? She, also is reading Sherlock Holmes and is further along in her book than I am in mine.

“Which was the most difficult case to solve?” she challenged.

The story I was on was not so hard, but I couldn’t recall the most difficult. Truthfully I could not remember any of the tales well enough.

I brushed my teeth but was aware of having to hurry. The pier was already closing, my visit had been very worthwhile but now I needed to leave. There was no water to rinse my toothbrush. I looked at the toilet roll but there were only a few sheets left; plus I was concerned for its primary use right next to the toilet bowl! And on the sink I saw a fuller roll sitting there. I took a couple of sheets and wiped the brush with them carefully, making sure to clean the residue off the bristles.

Then I left for the hotel.

As I walked back and through the lobby, I saw the woman in the beige dress again. Maybe we could have a drink or some dinner.

Photo by Joe Shlabotnik via Flickr
Portrait by Charles Dana Gibson 1891 via Wikimedia Commons

April 14, 2022July 31, 2025

How to Avoid Terrorists

When I got into the elevator at the Castleton, others piled in too. We were stuffed side by side when the doors closed but then the elevator started to shake, then tip, then free fall.

I was standing on top of others so it would be ok; I would be cushioned once we hit the bottom. And the fall was quite slow, the side of the elevator scraping metal against the walls of the elevator shaft.

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

February 16, 2022October 22, 2022

Mad But Trying to Make Up in Copenhagen

Siobhan is mad at me and has gone off in a huff.

I leave to go into a student pub. It is early evening, in Copenhagen, young people crowding the bar.

At the back are the toilets, three stalls and when one comes free I check it out. Surprisingly it has clean white walls, and enough toilet roll, though the paper is grey. Then another comes free so I check to see if it is better. More rolls, white paper this time, also clean. And the last comes free so I check it too… I’ve been in student bars before. I need to be clean before facing the music and toilet dreams never end well.

Back at the first stall, I lift my travel pack and suit jacket onto a hook. The space is huge. Paper lines the bowl, thoughtfully. There is room to set everything down but when I start to sit, the liner slides off. A bright red foot tray is under the paper, follows the rim of the seat, in case you want to squat, feet balanced on the bowl. It is clean too, so I forget about the liner, remove the foot tray and sit directly on cold ceramic.

Outside it is bright enough for sunglasses, a beach town with a whitewashed glare; I haven’t been to Copenhagen, but I swear I am there. 1920s cars with gold headlamps on stalks gently meander and squawk, but the taxis are the black London cabs, they honk and are in a hurry. When I cross the road the old fashioned cars are the ones to stop, even when I am not at a cross road.

I climb a road curving up and to the left, past T-shirt stores, buckets of ice cream and Threshers, souvenirs stands selling rubber rings and air filled dolphin floats.

Across the road, Siobhan is eating at a restaurant, a covered terrace, balcony enclosed by a white picket fence. She is by the pavement’s edge and sees me, so I cut across the road and step through the gate, squeeze towards her table. A waitress carves the route, through tables crammed with people shoulder to shoulder.

Once I am by her side I ask Siobhan, What are you eating? but she is not talking to me. I tell the waitress, I will have French fries, Siobhan, the house salad.

Just as I am settling down, two young women also take their seats. We are packed tight, elbows touching, two round white tables pressed together, jostling for space, neither big enough for lunch.

The closest woman is blonde, short spiky hair, heavy black mascara traces her eyes.

Our plates arrive. She pulls out a deck of cards and deals a hand to her friend. She fans her cards, holds them up and away from my gaze.

“Stop shaking your carbs,” she says, only half amusingly, and I am at a loss for words.

“I can itch them instead,” I reply. But my joke falls flat.

She and her friend turn their noses up at at me, and Siobhan looks away.

Postcard by Hagens World via Flickr

January 27, 2022July 29, 2022

Escaping from a Tsunami

(I)

We were on vacation, in a cafeteria, waiting to get on board a plane to one of the islands. It was pouring down outside. A group sat at a long plastic table, but there wasn’t room for us, so Siobhan dragged a second table and aligned it next to theirs. Still it was too small to fit all of us, so I added another table, aligning it next to Siobhan’s.

A woman was sitting at the long table. She was thin, a blue dress, with thin wispy blonde hair, neatly crossed her legs.