E
Early Closing All the shops are closing early and this town is like an old western. The cowboys are getting drunk in anticipation of the holiday ahead. My taxi driver tells me it’s not worth staying out tonight. He usually works from four in the evening to four in the morning, but he’s from the wrong side of town he says, so he’s not safe. Last year he got swore at for working the holiday by a passenger of some obnoxiousness. Her friend reasoned that if he weren’t working, he wouldn’t be available to take her to where she was going. You’ve got to make a living, no matter what day of the year it is. People sweat and gruel on the Sabbath and on Christmas Day, despite the order to rest. Parts of the city are packing themselves away. Little flat pack maisonettes and grocery stores put into storage for a week or two, hoping that vacancy will be enough cotton wool to protect them from the knocks of the season. It feels too unnatural to hibernate in the summer. Now the helicopters are out like tropical dragonflies attracted to the heat, scanning the heats for whatever dragonflies seek. Sugar or pollen or riots. Half the doors are locked and some cars are parked with a prayer. In here, an explosion is never a car backfiring. |
Escapism A funnel: a hot funnel; steam of tepee nestled before me. It is mine, mine to contemplate and pour over, mine to stir its collapsed architecture inside the circular domain to tease with nonchalance, exposing its heart to the air of my kingdom. I process this little treasure of peace to souse over time. It is mine. |
Expansion See Ireland’s bog meadows cloistered under dawn; Autumn, when everything dies, even the spirits of man, no longer holding proud his evergreen resolute traditions. The forest of guns have been stripped: see death’s wood and brass char in the enterprise of progress. You cannot build on marshland thick with the history of a nation’s blood. |