The Gauldrons Beach, Machrihanish. So many soles...
Tuesday, 29 March 2011
Sunday, 27 March 2011
Saturday, 26 March 2011
Monday, 21 March 2011
Wednesday, 16 March 2011
No Leaf, No Silt, No Residue
“If you won’t come out then we’re coming to you.”
That’s what Maegan said on the phone. I almost didn’t answer at first, but she kept ringing and ringing until the noise damn-near broke me down. “It’s not healthy, to see those four walls all the time,” she said. I knew she was serious. I agreed. Besides, I couldn’t stomach that; having Maegan and Amanda round. They would open the curtains, and slide the sash up to let air in. They would frown at the wilted weeping fig in the bathroom, and at the dead carnations in the vase in the bedroom, and glances would be exchanged over the cups in the sink lined with blue-furred mould.
I found some clothes in the washing pile and got dressed. I didn’t care to wash my hair, or my face. I took the bus and met them at the House of Tea. We only ever go there when one of us is trying to kick caffeine and rebalance. I suspected Maegan this time, since she suggested it. They were inside when I got there, sitting on an old futon next to the fire place, with a purple tie-dye throw draped over it. That’s the thing about the House of Tea; it’s genuine quirky. Nothing matches, it’s like a jumble-sale of tables and chairs and ornaments and cups and saucers. I think I like it.
I sat down on the red velvet armchair opposite them.
“You’ve got your t-shirt on backwards,” Amanda said when I took my jacket off. “Honey, did you realise? Did you realise you put your shirt on backwards?”
“Sure,” I said. “Sure I realised – I did it on purpose. I’m trying something new, you know.”
They both looked at me for a real long time, heads cocked to the side, not saying anything. Then Amanda began. “Well, I hope you don’t mind but we ordered for you. Something tasty.” She pushed a little polka-dotted tea-pot towards me. “It’s green-tea with ginseng. Loose-leaf, so you know it’s good.” I poured a little in to my tea-cup, ignoring the strainer that they’d left out for me.
“You know, the waiter says that ginseng can do all kinds of wonders for the body. Isn’t that right?” She said, looking to Maegan for backup. Maegan was nodding.
“Yeah, yep, all kinds of wonders,” she agreed. “For physical and mental wellbeing. Isn’t that something?”
I said it was. It’s true though, tea really is something. When my mother had cancer she started drinking this ancient blend called Kombucha, made with special fermented mushroom fungus. It tasted of lychees and vinegar, I remember. She kept trying to get me to drink it too, but I was heavily caffeine dependent then, moreso than I am now, and couldn’t face the stuff. Within months she was cured though. The cancer had gone, completely. She swears by the stuff now, says she owes her life to tea.
We all sipped our blends – me the ginseng, Maegan some Oolong for her high blood pressure and Amanda this lemon infused variety of Lapsang Souchong for her poor digestion. “How are you keeping just now, honey?” Amanda said. “I mean, how are you keeping?” She put her cup down and cocked her head over again.
“Tickety boo,” I said, “Just fine.”
“Are you sure?” Maegan cut in. “I mean, we’ve been thinking you seem a little blue again.” She waited for me to say something, but I didn’t. I didn’t say anything. “Well?” she said. “Are you a little blue again? Because if you are, you know…” she trailed off.
“I know,” I said. I didn’t know though, not really. I just said I did. “Anyway I told you,” I said, “I’m tickety boo.”
They didn’t probe further. I’m good at doing serious, and they never usually push it. Instead Amanda started to tell us the latest developments with her digestive tract. I stopped paying attention after her speech about the bitterness of bile, though. I’d become mesmerised by the dregs of liquid and leaf swirling in the bottom of the cup. “Hey,” I said, butting in to their conversation. “Hey, do you remember when that woman read my tea-leaves?” They stopped talking. Amanda squinted her eyes.
“Vaguely,” she said. “Mmm. That’s right. The old kook thought she could see the future in the bottom of a tea-cup.
I nodded hungrily. “What did she tell us again?” I said. “She had all sorts to say. All sorts of stuff.”
Maegan said that old woman had seen a goat in her leaves, and that it meant she’d receive news about a sailor. But Maegan didn’t know any sailors, and still doesn’t, so didn’t take any heed of it. Amanda thought her reading had something to do with a coffin, so she stopped the woman telling her any more. Coffins never mean happiness anywhere, do they?
“Let’s try to do mine,” I said. “Let’s see what shapes I get in my leaves. Then when I go home I can look it up.”
“You know it’s just silly, don’t you?” Maegan said. “You know it’s not really true. Tea-leaves can’t tell you what’s happening next week.”
“I want to do it,” I said. I really did too. “And besides, how do you know they can’t? Tea can do all kinds of wonders. I want to do it.”
They looked sceptical but I was doing serious again. “Sure,” they said, in unison. “Okay.”
I swirled the remaining mixture around a few times for good measure. This is what the woman had me do last time. Then I angled the cup a little, so the liquid part drained in to the saucer. The two of them leant across the table, so’s we could all peer into the bottom of cup, to where the leaf residue should have been. It was too dark, with all us blocking out the light.
“What can you see?” Amanda said. “It’s too shadowy in there, I can’t even tell. It’s like a black hole.” They both sat back into the futon, waiting for me to say something, to say what I the tea-leaves had predicted for me. I kept my eyes fixed on the bottom of the cup, straining to see. Everything had drained away though. There was just stained china. No leaf, no silt, no residue.
“Nothing,” I said eventually. “I can’t see anything.”
Tuesday, 15 March 2011
It's Only a Matter of Time
He was smoking a joint when she came in from work. “You want some of this?” he said. He was nonchalant, laid out on his back on the settee. The television was on.
“Sure,” she said, setting her handbag on the floor. “I’ll take some. Just give me a second.” She moved to the window and pushed the sash up half way. “There’s a fog in here,” she said. “I can barely even see for it.” He didn’t say anything. She moved back, took a seat on the arm of the settee by his feet. He passed her the joint.
“Thanks,” she said, taking a drag on it. The ashtray was balanced on his belly, piled up with roach and douts. It moved slow and subtle as he breathed. She flicked the burning end in to it. “How was your day?” she asked.
“Same old,” he said, eventually. “Same old.” She nodded, taking another drag, deeper. He kept his eyes on the television. “How was yours?”
“Uh-huh. You know,” she said. “Same.” The show on the TV ended, credits rolled. She finished the joint, stubbed it out in the ashtray. “That was harsh,” she said, coughing. “Don’t you think?”
He cocked his head round to look at her, sighed, and stretched his hand out. She caught his fingers in hers. They were cold and clammy. “I need a drink,” she said. “I’m going to fix a drink. You want me to fix us something?” He kept his fingers tangled in hers. “Is there any beer left?” she said. “I could manage one.”
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll take something. You’ll have to check.”
She went to the kitchen. The dishes from the previous night were still by the sink, stuck with leftover food. There was no beer, only empty bottles and tins laid by the bin.
“Honey,” she called through to him, “We’re out of beer. There’s not a drop.” She moved round the kitchen, pushed crumbs from the surfaces on to the floor, cleared the waste from the plates and stacked them in the basin. “Remind me,” she started, “remind me to take this bin down tomorrow.” He responded, something unclear. “Let’s see if there’s something else in here for drinking,” she thought aloud. She searched the cupboards. “We’ve got Port,” she called through again. “You want some Port?”
Silence.
“It’s Wednesday,” she went on. “It’s only Wednesday. Let’s have some Port.”
She took through the bottle and two glasses, set them on the coffee table and poured out their drinks, generous measures. He stayed laid out, watching her. She was concentrating hard, taking care to make sure they were equal.
“Do you remember that Friday afternoon we drank a whole bottle of this?” she said, sipping at her drink. His eyes were sleepy, but he smiled.
He took one of the glasses from her, propped himself up and drank. “Yeah,” he said. “How come we decided to do that?”
She shrugged. “You know I can’t remember. I can’t even remember.” He offered out his cold hand to her again. “It was a Friday, I guess,” she decided.
She took his fingers in hers and toyed with them. They were stained faint brown and the nails were down to the quick. His thumb nail was black and raised up. She traced over it lightly.
“This one has been threatening to come off for a while now, huh.” she said.
“It has,” he agreed. He took his hand back, inspected the nail, then moved the ashtray and scratched at his belly. Tufts of hair poked out from under his shirt. “It’s only a matter of time I guess.”
They sat for sometime, until their glasses were empty. He’d rolled them another joint, and they’d shared it quietly. Another show started on the television. The volume was low, but they watched anyhow. She emptied the dregs of the bottle into their glasses.
“I thought they killed him off?” she said, motioning toward the screen with her glass.
“No,” he shook his head. “I don’t think so. Someone else maybe.”
“Oh,” she said. “I would have sworn it was him too. Show’s what I know. That just shows what I know.”
He stayed watching, but she couldn’t commit to it. She couldn’t commit to the television, or to any of the magazines on the coffee-table, or to the washing-up in the kitchen. Instead she got up, went to the window. It was early evening but bright out, and the breeze that drifted under the sash was altogether fresh. There were a few folks on the street below, making it home from work, or maybe not; maybe heading out to supper instead. She stayed facing out, her back to him.
“I could do something tonight,” she said. “What do you think? What do you think to doing something tonight honey?” An old couple walked by, arms linked. She watched them, imagining what they might say to one another, the old man and his wife.
“Have you something in mind?” is what he said, in time. The old woman below laughed out, and the noise carried up to her.
“When’s the last time we went out?” she mused. “I mean really went out?”
“I can’t recall,” he said. She turned to him, laid out on the settee. He was picking at a bowl of salted cashews on the coffee table.
“Let’s do something,” she said again. “Let’s really go to town on it. What do you say to that?”
He chewed on a nut, slowly. She saw he savoured each bite. Then when he was done he licked the salt from his lips, and from the tips of his fingers; from the blackened thumb-nail, and reached for a handful more.
“We could get food,” she said. “I know I’m getting hungry. Aren’t you starved? We could go get some roast chicken, or some juicy steaks.” He began to nod his head. “We haven’t had steaks in an age. I could really eat a good steak now. And a cold beer. Uh-uh, that’s what we’ll do: we’ll go down to the grill and get a couple of peppered steaks and some cold beers. What do you say to it?”
His head was bobbing, more enthusiastic. “Okay,” he said. “Why not?”
She said she might like to take a shower, to freshen up for supper. “I need to wash the day away,” is what she said.
“I’ll finish watching this show then,” he said. He upped the volume on the television. “You shower, and I’ll be right here when you get out. Oh, and leave the door unlocked, will you? In case I need to pee.” He took a handful more cashews and laid back out on the settee.
*
In the bedroom she dried her body carefully. Her thighs were mottled red from the hot water, so she sat on the edge of the bed, blew on them lightly. When they calmed, she stood without a stitch on, preparing. She dabbed perfume on her neck, then brushed out her hair and tied it loosely. It was still damp, but she was ravenous now. A little damp didn’t fuss her. She spread some cream on her arms and her stomach, then her face, watching in the mirror. Her eyes were a little red, maybe, but it didn’t matter so much – they were going for steaks. Finally she picked out some clean clothes; a linen summer-dress and sandals. The linen felt cool against her hot skin.
In the lounge he was still on his back. The ashtray was rested on his stomach again; a joint glowing in it.
“Are you ready?” she said. He took a drag on the end, then let out the smoke in a thick plume.
“You know, we don’t need to go out tonight,” he said. He cleared his throat. “I don’t think I’m much in the mood to go out anymore.”
She stood in the door –frame, facing him. Smoke coiled around his head. The window was closed now, and the blinds pulled down.
“Let’s have take-out,” he said. “Let’s just have take-out tonight. Chinese or something.”
She let her hand-bag slide from her shoulder, to the floor.
“Look though,” he said, lifting his hand up towards her. “Look what just happened.” Where his thumb nail had been was pink and moist and fleshy. “The nail came clean off. It just came right off, quick as you like.”
“That’s something,” she said.
“Isn’t it?” he said. They fixed eyes briefly. Then he turned his head to watch the show that was starting on the television.
Thursday, 3 March 2011
Waste
A blog dedicated to some of the interesting things I've seen in the street. Little fragments of the lives of others....
I can't promise they'll be exotic, but all the pictures on here are real things that compose urban modern art.
All thoughts welcome :-)
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