The Watcher on the Quay

Turning Japanese

2008-08-23T21:40:00.000-07:00

This was a travel piece written for and published in The List magazine. Two things to know: 1. soon after this came out Nova collapsed for various reasons and currently exists in a fragmented form. 2. There is a clause in the Nova contract that holds you liable for any negative publicity directly attributable to you. I won't do a James Kelman and point out all the bits that were edited out, rather I will bow to sub-editor knowledge and give you the version as it appeared in The List. With one caveat. The headline wasn't mine.

Scottish writer Iain Maloney spent two years teaching English in Inuyama, a small town in Japan. Here, he writes about his experiences:

The door slid shut with a bang and all four customers turned and stared. I squeezed my way along the narrow space between walls and stools, perched myself on an empty one and opened my phrase book.

‘Biru . . .’ Pause to look at book.

‘. . . Kudasai.’

My beer arrived and with it the questions. By 10pm my new friends were leading me to a pub-cum-tattoo shop so I could be introduced to the English-speaking Bosnian owner. We played darts, ate tacos and drank sake infused with ginseng and snake venom.

‘I’m a bit tired,’ I emailed my mother, ‘but Japan seems very nice.’

I spent my first evening sitting on the balcony of my new flat with a can of Asahi beer and a cigarette. It had been one hell of a day. I’d been told that I would be arriving in the middle of the rainy season. ‘Fair enough,’ I thought, ‘I’m from Scotland; I can cope with rain.’ But after being in the country for three minutes I was soaked through, even though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Humidity is something the Scottish weather just doesn’t do, and I don’t like it: leaving the airport was like walking into a hangover. I felt physically deflated, every ounce of energy I’d held in reserve sapped by the simple act of walking.

On the train I was squashed against strangers, face against glass, struggling to breathe. Between stations and stolen gasps I caught glimpses of my new home. The architecture was Soviet-style, functional and featureless rather than the futuristic Blade Runner look promised by the guidebooks.

I was met at the airport by my new boss. We reached Inuyama and confidently followed the map to my flat. I stopped and bought some noodles from a convenience store and stood eating them as my boss looked from the cross on the map to the multi-storey car park we were standing in.

‘I don’t think this is it,’ he said.

‘No?’

‘No.’

On one side of the car park was a temple. On the other a corrugated structure reminiscent of a crack house. I was too jet-lagged to care. An old woman looked at the map, and confirmed that we were indeed in a car park.

The view from my balcony: to the north the Japanese signs blinked invitingly and traditional roofs curved over Zen gardens. The south was reminiscent of small-town America: a long straight Main Street lined with neon burger and bar signs. Karaoke bars and sushi shops on one side, Denny’s and McDonald’s on the other. East meeting West with my flat at the epicentre.

I worked for Nova, the biggest private language school in Japan. Unlike JET, which places teachers in state schools, Nova is for fee-paying students of all ages. It is ideal for the first-timer to Japan: the company organises all the paperwork and accommodation and arranges for you to be met at the airport.

I had pictured teaching as a distraction from the important business of travelling, drinking heavily and belting out Green Day tracks in karaoke bars. It wasn’t. My pupils were aged between two and 78, and as Nova is a conversation school they practice chatting by, well, chatting. You don’t have to worry about students repeatedly asking you to explain the ‘present continuous past perfect subjunctive’; you’re more likely to be asked, ‘why don’t westerners take their shoes off in the house?’ or ‘How do I get a British girlfriend?’ Two questions I am still unable to answer.

Teaching the children was an absolute joy as they were energetic, fun and mostly well-behaved. Forty minutes of stomping and shouting around a classroom, playing baseball and snap, and getting paid for it? If this is work then I’ll do a 14-hour shift. Besides, nothing can beat the overwhelming feeling of Mr Mayagi-like wisdom you get the first time a child bows low and says: ‘Good morning, Sensei’.

Although I arrived in Japan a virtual illiterate, the language wasn’t the obstacle I expected it to be. Staff in train stations speak enough English to get you to Tokyo and even the ticket machines speak more languages than your average UN translator. Living in the country does require some effort if you want to converse with more than ticket machines, though; smiling and pointing is fine, but I don’t believe that illiteracy is a virtue and I wanted friends not charades partners.

Japanese, with only two tenses and no plurals or articles, comes as a welcome relief for anyone forced to conjugate être and avoir at school, and finding a victim to practice on is easy in such a friendly country. Usually within ten minutes of sitting at the bar by myself, someone a few sakes braver would sidle over to practice their English. Invariably they were part of a larger group and would invite me back to their table for drinking games, amusement and, once, an arm-wrestling competition.

Japan is so varied and wonderful that everyday something surprises you, whether that be women in traditional kimono belting out Pink’s ‘Just Like A Pill’ at karaoke, fertility festivals with three metre tall wooden penises or peerless Mount Fuji standing 3776m high with a cigarette vending machine at the top. But nothing beats Japan’s people. Unparalleled in hospitality, warmth and friendliness, their example strips the cynicism and selfishness of Europe off you like so much excess weight. In this job I became both teacher and student. I fell in love.

Paradise Lost

2008-08-23T21:05:00.000-07:00

The war had ravaged Glasgow. Black smoke perpetually covered the skyline. Searchlights swept over rubble and ruin. The Argyle Street flat Danny was born in no longer stood. Not much did. In a few places Glasgow was still recognisable: the Umbrella connecting the two sides of Central hung, seemingly immovable, though the station itself was nothing more than a husk, two barely standing walls and a bridge, wreckage of tracks hanging from either side. The road underneath was grooved from tank tracks, pitted with grenade craters. The University tower, decapitated by a downed helicopter, stuck into the skyline like a rotten tree. Bodies littered the streets. Only three buildings in the city remained untouched. Hampden, Ibrox and Celtic Park.

This was no accident. When war was declared, the Enemy’s communications director, a fat officious fool called Gibson, had broadcast on all TV and radio channels, and over the net.
In one week we will begin our bombardment. You will know what to expect from our victories elsewhere. Defeat is inevitable. Your Executive has had enough chances to avoid this but has failed you. However we are not barbarians. All civilians under the age of twelve should be placed in the three main football stadia where they will remain untouched. We have no quarrel with the young. Anyone found outside these locations will be considered fair game. The stadia will be guarded by our troops. Anyone not included in the above category found inside will be in breach of these conditions and will be dealt with appropriately.

At first people didn’t know what to do. Some were defiant, refusing to accept defeat as a possibility. Those who’d closely followed the other invasions knew what to expect and wanted to hang on to normality while they could. Many tried to run. Airports saw the first violence as families fought over tickets, tried to force their way onto already overcrowded planes. By the time the deadline came round, Glasgow, like every other Scottish city, was in a state of high anxiety. Some parts of the city had descended into anarchy, fighting and looting doing the work of the troops before they’d even arrived. Other places were eerily calm. The city centre was like the eye of a storm as families said their goodbyes, quietly preparing for the next day.
Around the football grounds it was chaos. Those, like Danny’s Gran, who were taking no chances wanted to see their children safe inside. Fights broke out as the crowd were bottlenecked into the narrow channels, gridlocked. Many fell in the crush; parents were prematurely separated from their kids by the swinging mass of bodies. Some never made it to the doors. Other got there only by climbing over the prone forms of the unlucky. Inside the children wandered about in shock. For many their last glimpse of a mother or father had been of them throwing a punch, shouting run, just get inside. Whatever you do get inside. Their parents had turned into animals before their eyes. Celtic Park echoed with the sound of crying.
That was six months ago.

Danny sat in row F and looked out over the pitch. All available space from touchline to touchline was filled with tents. Flags, shirts, poles with shoes hung on top rose above the originally regimented ranks. Markers so Danny and his fellow inmates could find their homes easily and quickly. Not that it mattered. Every minute of every day for six months had been spent on the pitch, in the stand, and in the back rooms. There was no one here who couldn’t wind his way through the canvas maze and find their own tent, even in pitch darkness.
Sections of the stand had been destroyed. Black gaps like missing teeth interrupted the three white stripes that circled the seating. The paintwork, green, white and gold, was chipped, peeling. Doors hung from their hinges and advertising hoardings lay snapped where they’d fallen. Few of the lights still worked, and those that did cast disturbing shadows across the tents at night. The roof sign now read CELT C F OT ALL CL 888, the missing letters, knocked clean by the nightly bombardments, had been appropriated by the kids. One, Bob, had managed to get his hands on the letters that spelt his name and leant them against his tent. The weight let the rain in but he refused to relinquish his prize. The beautiful stadium, Mecca for every Bhoy, the Church of Celtic, had been desecrated. Paradise lay in ruins, lost.

Rubbing his closely shaved head Danny closed his eyes and tried to imagine Parkhead as it had been.

Despite his father’s promises he’d never been to Celtic Park until the day he was left here. But in the last six months he’d wandered every corridor, been in every room, studied everything. He’d each picture memorised, down to the finest detail. He’d read every history, watched all the documentaries, all the archived matches. Six months had solidified Danny’s status as a Celtic fan.

In his mind’s eye he erased the tents, the people, the decay until the stadium was returned to its pristine pre-match beauty. He then added the sixty-odd thousand fans, each decked in the green and white hoops, waving scarves and flags, all focused, together, on one passion: for football, for Celtic. He added the camera flashes, the commentary voiceover’s, the policemen lining the pitch. Only then, when everything was right, did he mentally look to the tunnel, see the players emerge. The roar shook him; his seat seemed to bounce as each imaginary person jumped up and down, celebrating the very existence of the players.

The team that marched out had never played together, but it was the perfect team, the ultimate Celtic eleven. Billy McNeil led them, calm, focused. Behind him Jimmy Johnstone skipped out, full of energy, bursting to get stuck into the opposition. Henrik Larsson, dreadlocked, casually sauntered out, nodding briefly to the fans. Kenny Dalglish, Bobby Murdoch, Ronnie Simpson, Bobby Lennox. Generations of legends. Finally Jock Stein, the epitome of everything Celtic, strolled towards the dug out, smiling in the sure knowledge of a victory.

“What you grinnin at?”

Danny reluctantly opened his eyes though he’d no need to. The nasal voice alone was enough to tell him that Tracy had found him. Tracy was the same age as him, would’ve been in his year at school if they went to such a place. His days were spent trying to avoid meeting her, while hers seemed to be filled by following him around like an irritating dog.

“Nuthin”
“You’re mental, you know that?”
“Aye, you’ve told me every day for the last six months.”

She sat down next to him, played with the flapping sole of her shoe.

“What you been up tae?”
“Well ah was gonnae go tae the pictures but ah decided ah couldn’t be bothered so ah thought ah’d hang around here for the rest of ma life.”
“Okay, ah only asked.”

Tracy was from Bridgeton, was one of the last people to get in. Her Granda had decided it was a good idea only hours before they locked the doors. She’d lost him in the crush but, being small, had managed to slide through the crowd and slip in. Another day and she’d have been dead. Danny almost wished she was. He just wanted to be left alone. How could you dream your way out of this place if every five seconds you got dragged back?

Today was Danny’s twelfth birthday. Not that anyone knew. He didn’t exactly feel like celebrating. What was a birthday when you’d no parents or friends to spend it with? No presents, no cake. Tracy was the closest thing to a friend he had, and he didn’t like her that much.

They rarely got any news in here, but they could tell from the nightly flashes, bangs and earthshaking explosions that the war was still going strong. Generally, they could sleep through the noise, but every so often it just couldn’t be ignored. Last night was like that for Danny. It’d been worse than he could remember. A huge battle had taken place. Happy Birthday Danny. What was it about his birthdays? All his life he’d been unlucky. His birth had been marked by another battle. 21st May 2003. Seville. He’d come into the world as extra-time began. They’d moved a TV into the delivery room. His mother had been caught between screaming in pain and demanding to know the score. His entrance had been met by hysteria followed by gloom. His Da had called him a jinx.

“Ma heids cauld”, Tracy said, jerking him from his reverie.
“Aye, mine too.”

The doctors had been through yesterday, checking all the kids. Full medical and a head shave to keep the lice away. It was like some alien world, Danny thought. All those bald heads, not a hair in sight. He didn’t mind too much, something less to think about. Besides, as it grew back in he thought he looked like Larsson, after the dreads. And that wasn’t something to be angry about. The girls were far from impressed though. Most still put up a fight. Tracy had a black eye from where the rifle-butt had caught her as she fought the clippers away.

“What were you thinking about?” she asked again.
“Ma Da.”

He surprised himself. He hadn’t meant to say anything at all, let alone that. Too late. It was out there.

“Aye. Ah miss ma folks tae”.
“Ah wonder where they are. What’s happening?”

He didn’t expect an answer and she didn’t offer one. They both knew. Everyone harboured fantasies that their parents were members of the Resistance, brave heroes of Scotland hiding underground, travelling through the tunnels that laced beneath the city and no doubt some were, but the safe money was on death.

Danny never spoke about his family but, now that he’d mentioned them, he found he couldn’t keep quiet. “Ma Da was a huge Celtic fan. Came tae aw the games, travelled tae a lot of the away matches. He said he’d take me when ah was older.” He paused. “Funny. All that time ah jist wanted tae come here. Now ah jist wantae get away.”

Danny fell silent again. Tracy watched him. Something was different. Normally he was off-hand with her, as if her presence annoyed him. Today he seemed distracted, deflated. She’d heard him crying in his tent and it worried her. Sure, everyone cried at some point but Danny usually seemed so resilient.

“Did you ever find the statue?” she asked quietly. She knew it was a touchy subject but he seemed to be in the mood to talk.
“It’s no here. Ah asked wan of the doctors if he knew anything about it. Said that kinda thing would’ve been destroyed.”

Danny’s Great-grandmother had worked here selling pies. When she left, she’d donated a three-foot-high statue of the Virgin Mary to the club. It’d been on display somewhere in the ground and Danny had spent months trying to find it. It was his by rights and he wanted it for his tent. If he couldn’t be with his family he’d be with their statue. But it wasn’t there. It is a relic of this country’s past and as such will have been smashed. Your country and your religion don’t exist. There is no country and no religion but ours anymore. At least the doctor hadn’t seemed too pleased about it. Danny quite liked some of them. They weren’t like the soldiers who referred to the kids as ‘it’ and took great delight in beating them for the slightest infraction.

“You hungry?” Tracy asked looking at him side on, her head at an angle like a Labrador.
“Aye. Missed breakfast.”
“Ah noticed. Where were you?”
“Upstairs.”

Tracy didn’t say anything. She knew what upstairs meant. He’d been watching one of the games, one he knew his parents had been at. Trying to spot them in the crowd for the hundredth time.

“Here.” She handed him two chunks of bread wrapped in a napkin. “Ah figured you’d be hungry.”

“How’d you get this out?” he asked in awe. Every child was searched when leaving the dinning room in case they were smuggling food. They all tried but Danny had never been successful.

He’d a scar above his right eye to remind him what being caught meant.

“Ask me no questions an ah’ll tell you no lies.” Gratefully he bit into the stale bread.

“Ma Da took all ma brother’s tae the games,” she said. “Wouldnae take me though. It’s no a place for a lassie. Figure ah’ve spent more time here than he ever did.” She laughed bitterly.

“Still, Ma took me shoppin when they were away. Lunch at Macdonald’s, new claethes from the Galleries.” She looked down at herself. All the children wore layers of rags, whatever the troops bothered to get together. Some had bloodstains. At first they all hung onto their own clothes, but wear and tear meant that eventually they’d had to accept what was given. Sleeping under canvas in Glasgow wasn’t a pleasant experience, so they all wore as much as they could.

“Ma was as Celtic daft as Da.” Danny said. Tracy looked at him. He’d never mentioned his mother beyond the fact of having one. “She went tae all the home games with him. Right pair they were, decked out in all the kit. Used tae leave me with Gran. Ah’d stay the night coz they’d go tae the pub after. She’d give me burgers and ice cream for dinner. Try tae make it special.”

Losing his father had been hard on Danny, but he’d coped, to a point. Losing his mother was different. She’d doted on him: Ma wee man she’d say. Give him a hug. He could feel the tightness in his gut, the tears welling up. No, ah’m no gonnae cry. No today. The last night he’d seen them: Danny, his parents and his Gran had gone out for dinner, a bar supper. He’d never been inside a pub before and was fascinated by the smell, the look of the place. His Da had given him a few sips of his pint. When ah get back ah’ll buy you a pint. Every boy’s first pint should be bought by his faither. Danny could still taste the beer, could still remember the wooziness that followed. He knew the first thing he’d say to his Da: You owe me a pint. Danny wouldn’t hold him to his second promise though: Ah’ll buy you a pint, an then it’s off tae Paradise. First game that’s played, you an I, son. No chance. A pint and then home.

Danny smiled, but it didn’t last long. His thoughts inevitably ran on to the end of that night, when he and his Gran had gone across Jamaica Bridge, and his parents had gone in the opposite direction. His Ma had held him so tight, wouldn’t let go. His Da had taken hold of her, said It’ll be alright, you’ll see. It’s only for a bit. Till all this is over.

“You okay?” Tracy’s voice took him back to the moment. He looked at her. She wasn’t that bad really.
“Aye, fine. Just thinkin about after.”
“Goin for that pint?”

He’d forgotten that he’d told her.

“Aye.” Suddenly angry he kicked the seat in front. “If we ever get out of this place.”

“We will.” The way she said it made him turn. Such belief and determination in her voice. “They cannae keep us here forever. Eventually they’ll have tae dae somethin.”

“Aye, but what?”

“Whatever, it’s no up tae us.”

Out on the pitch something was happening. Heads appeared from tent flaps, bodies popped up and looked about like Prairie Dogs. There were shouts and, as one, they ran towards the tunnel.

“What’s happenin?” Tracy asked, standing and trying to see what was different.

“Mibbe it’s over.” Danny said sarcastically. At the beginning this happened a lot. Rumours went round that it was peace, that the Resistance had won, and everyone ran to the windows and doors. False alarms. It would never be over, Danny thought.

Tracy sat back down but fidgeted. Her brain fought with her emotions. If they were getting out she wanted to be at the front, be the first outside. Claustrophobia tried to overcome her but she fought it back. Six months had killed her childish optimism, had installed pessimism in its place.

“We’re no here for safety,” Danny said. “We’re hostages.”

“What do you mean?”

“If the Resistance begins winning they can say stop fighting or we kill them all.”

Like a chimney suddenly exploding smoke the children burst back onto the pitch. Behind them marched the troops, guns pointed. Hundreds of them spread from the tunnel and encircled the pitch. They stood like the police at an Old Firm game, but much harder, much more sinister. Danny and Tracy slowly rose and walked down the steps. Those already on the pitch were backing off, pushing towards the centre circle. Others appeared in the stands, forced from the inner rooms at gunpoint. A soldier, khakied and helmeted, gestured to them with his M16: Come on. They kept their pace, tried to act casual. Danny felt the dirt through the holes in his shoes as they stepped onto the pitch. A magpie floated down and rested on the nearest crossbar, watching. The giant screen flickered on, and Gibson’s smug face appeared, God-like above them.

“It’s ma birthday the day,” he said.

“Happy Birthday.”

“Thanks.” He broke the last piece of bread in half, gave her a piece.

In unspoken solidarity they joined hands, raised their heads. Silence spread through Paradise as Gibson began speaking.

(commissioned by and published in The Celtic View)

A True History of Our Lord Rene Descartes

2008-08-23T21:03:00.001-07:00

The purpose of this essay is not an in depth discussion into the myths and legends surrounding Rene Descartes but rather an introduction for the uninitiated student of Cartesianity. All that will be discussed here are known facts, proven time and again by philosophers, with no embellishments or bias for any point of view.

Descartes was born after immaculate conception at the time of year we now refer to as Cartesmas Time around 2000 years ago in 0 BC. His mother, the Virgin Candy as the Roman Cartholics refer to her, was on her way to Tours for the annual Solipsist’s Convention when the angel Gary came to her in a dream and informed her that she was heavily pregnant with the Son of God. Candy was delighted with this news as it meant that she could satisfy her biological ticking without dealing in all that ‘messy business’ and that her son would never fear unemployment. Hoping that she could still reach the convention she decided to continue driving for Tours but her labour pains began as she was passing through the village of La Haye. Pulling into the car park of the local Hilton she soon discovered that not only were there no parking spaces but there were no rooms available either. Left with no other alternative, the Lady Candy reluctantly gave birth to the Baby Rene in the back of a Ford Cortina.

After a difficult childhood being raised by a single parent in those repressed times and suffering the stigma of illegitimacy, young Rene eventually realised the calling of his birth and entered into the Holy Order of Philosophers at La Fleche where he remained until it was felt that his education was complete. At the Order he became involved with a gang of revolutionaries who called themselves the “Rationalists”. These were twelve students including a young David Hume who was later to turn Rene over to the “Empiricists”, the sworn enemies of the Rationalists. Their philosophy was that the world is an optical illusion which could only be made sense of by the use of reason. Feeling the pull of spirituality that all in this Holy Order recognise as their own, Rene applied this philosophy and meditated upon the world. Thus, like an alchemist, he concocted his most famous theories: the abolition of famine by the division of two or three loaves and fishes amongst the third world countries; his treatise on the possibilities of walking on water and, perhaps most importantly, his realisation of the existence of the great malignant demon Santa. This demon, he theorised, came once a year among the mortals, entered their abodes through the chimneys and gave the occupants found therein false knowledge of the world.

He now entered the most important stage of his life. Upon realising that all knowledge was suspect to doubts he set off for the deserts of France and Belgium (at that time situated near the equator) where he would not be disturbed by others nor found by Santa. His aim was that, by eschewing reason, he should completely forget everything he knew and so begin his system of knowledge over again. Unfortunately, as any psychology student tell you, if a man spends prolonged time without the company of others, he will undergo a period of self-discovery. Rene realised that he had a split personality and that there were two distinct people living within his body. Finding that he could never be truly alone he began dialogues with the other and, instead of forgetting everything, he began to unearth hitherto unknown facts which, he argued, could not be doubted since his dwelling had no chimney for Santa to enter through. Thus came such foundations of our intellectual lives as the theory that all our thoughts relate in some way to our mothers and that man could not survive without the invention and integration of a system of politics. However the field to most benefit from Descartes’ meditations was the field of mathematics. Just before his tragic death whilst protesting against the liberties being taken by carpenters and joiners, he stood up at a maths convention during a heated debate into which symbol should be used to signify “does not equal” and screamed “Cognito Error Sum”. Now the language in which this is stated is unknown and is thought by many to be of Rene’s own invention but we are assured that it can be interpreted as “I think like a machine therefore I can make no mistakes in mathematics”. This idea instantly became popular with maths students who frequently quoted it in examinations until the departments were forced to allow it onto the syllabus. From this point on human understanding of mathematics progressed in leaps and bounds.

After this Descartes disappeared from public attention for a few years but eventually resurfaced, styling himself as an ageing hippy, and began protesting against many of the worlds inadequacies. This led to his death when, after chaining himself to a wooden cross in a bid to show the world that every man could be a carpenter and didn’t have to pay their ridiculously high call out fees, he couldn’t unlock the chains. He refused the help of a locksmith claiming that they were involved in a conspiracy with the carpenters. He died after the cross became rotten due to forty days and nights of rain; he had neglected to apply varnish and it snapped leaving him face down in three inches of water. Since his feet were chained and he could not walk upon the liquid he had no choice but to breathe deeply the aqua vitae and promptly drowned.

(published on www.defenstrationmag.net)

Things I Know Are True Because Hollywood Says So

2008-08-23T20:57:00.000-07:00

You’d better be ready. Seven o’clock remember. I’ll ring twice.

I hang up. Hand still on the receiver I rest my head against the wall. The painkillers no longer deal with the headaches. It feels like my eyeball is being forced out. I swivel so my back is to the wall and sink to the floor. Everything important has been done: just the trivial things left. That’s where things will go wrong. Something small is liable to slip the net.

How long has the CD been skipping? I listen to the disc slipping, trying to work out at which point. In films you play vinyl, and vinyl always sticks at an ideal part of the song, at the revealing repeated phrase In real life CD’s don’t repeat phrases they just make an interminable tick tick tick like a metronome. It isn’t helping the headache. I wonder how long it’ll take for the irritation to rise to the level necessary for action. Not long. I get up and fall through the open door of the lounge.

My flat’s nice. It’s small but it suits me. I used to love this room. It’s such a mess now, the walls nicotine stained, newspapers and magazines spread over the floor. The curtains haven’t been open for months.

I think deciding to work from home was a mistake. The people at work were so jealous: no boss looking over my shoulder, no commuting, and no office politics. No structure. Slapping the open/close button I stare at the row of discs along the mantelpiece. Decisions. The CD LED flashes 00:00. It looks like a bomb.

I select The Beatles, the White Album. As usual the disc isn’t in the box so, straining like an old man, I get onto my knees and start searching through the carpet of silver plastic that surrounds the stereo.

It was fun at first. I installed all the relevant technology, geared myself up. Got the best of everything: the kind of laptop powerful enough to override the communications system of any invading alien society.

I was a film reviewer for the local paper. I got paid to watch films and then complain about them. Soon I realised that I could get any movie I wanted on the internet before its release. I would never have to go to the cinema again. Never have to suffer the chatting, fidgeting and munchings, the forced plasticity of the whole experience. I could lie on my sofa, alone in silence and work. I could stop the film for a toilet break. I could smoke. I could eat real food. It was perfect.

I find the disk and insert it, hitting shuffle. Disc one, I’m So Tired. Maybe this kind of thing does happen in real life. I’ve got to get ready. I’ll probably not sleep tonight. Should’ve got another prescription but it’s too late now. Hopefully they’ll have pills at the clinic. Hopefully they’ll give me pills at the clinic. They’d better considering the price. How can Iceland be so expensive? It’s hardly an economic power. Maybe that’s the reason. I wish I knew more about Iceland. At least they’ll all speak English. Should’ve rented more films. The only one I could find was 101 Reykjavik which isn’t going to help too much. Everything you need to know can be found in films.

To begin with I revelled in the fact that I had no need to set the alarm, could rise when I wanted, go to work naked. After a while I began to sleep on the sofa with the phone in one hand, the remote in the other. I ordered all my food, paying by credit card. I watched films all day, sometimes watching the same one seven or eight times in a row. All my work, banking, daily nutritional requirements could be achieved via the phone and the internet. The video shop would deliver and collect my films. During the day I kept the curtains closed so the sunlight wouldn’t interfere with the screen.

My mother took my films away. She came round eventually. I missed Christmas, she never saw me on my Birthday. It was always just the two of us – an only child and a divorcee. I never saw anything wrong with the way I was living. I was happy. She said I smelt dead. I no longer washed or changed. She called in someone who killed my pet mouse. She took me to the doctor who gave me pills. She took away my films.

I love my mother. I lived with her until I was twenty-eight. She cried when I moved out. She came round every day with food for me. She got upset when I stopped answering the door. She panicked. People always said she was over-protective. I don’t see how that can be the case; surely over-protective is just extra careful. It was always just the two of us. She just didn’t want anything bad happening to her only child.

I got fired. I submitted a review for a film which had been released in America but which was not being distributed over here. They were unhappy that I hadn’t been going to the cinema, said I hadn’t been entering into the spirit of things. I told them that I had been watching the films, that it made no difference where I watched them. I told them it showed that we were at the cutting edge, reviewing films that our readers hadn’t seen. They said something about expenses.

My mother found out about the clinic from a friend. I have problems distinguishing between reality and fantasy. It is expensive but she says she can afford it. It is called Overlook and is out in the middle of nowhere. The brochure looks nice. It doesn’t look like a hospital, more a kind of health farm. Mum says they can help me. They were unclear as to how long it would take so we’re letting out my flat. She’s going to deal with it all so I don’t have to worry. I’ve never flown before but I’m not scared. I wish mum could come. She hasn’t flown since her honeymoon. She says it’s amazing. If you go high enough you can see where the sky stops being blue and becomes black. Space. I wanted to be an astronaut when I was young. It’s beautiful up there with the spaceships dancing.

I would like to leave in the evening rather than the morning. The hero always rides off into the sunset. In horror movies people emerge into the dawn, stare up at the new sun glad that the demons are gone. I don’t want to be the hero in a horror film. I want to be in an intelligent comedy where I have a few mishaps along the way but can look back on them and laugh. I walk through to the kitchen as Don’t Pass Me By begins. On the table is a plate of mince and tatties with cling film covering it. I am to heat it up in the microwave.

On the wall behind the table is a poster of One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. I wonder if the clinic will be like this. I hope there’s an Indian who can’t speak and a boy with a stutter. I hope there’s no Nurse Ratchet.

The headache is still there. I rake through the top drawer to find some paracetemol though I know there isn’t any. The headaches started when I began taking the pills, a side effect. Mum said I could cope with them if they made me better. I suppose she’s right but it doesn’t make them any easier to suffer. They make my hands shake. What do I still have to do? I have a list somewhere. My suitcases are packed; mum has my passport and tickets. I won’t need much money while I’m there but she changed about a hundred quid for me just in case.

At first I found it hard to live without films. I didn’t know how to fill my day. I scanned magazines like Empire and Total Film, marking the new releases I was missing. I wandered aimlessly around the flat, restless, unhappy. One day I tried to go to the cinema. Mum had asked me not to but I couldn’t help it anymore, I needed to see something. My head was empty without them. At this point I hadn’t been outside for about six months. I had a shower, put on clothes that she had cleaned for me. I felt good. I couldn’t get beyond the end of the path. I stood, I don’t know how long, at the gate unable to open it. When my mum came around after work she found me there.

The thought of all those people intruding on my viewing made me shake. The idea of the world, a world that didn’t follow the rules of film was terrifying. There wouldn’t be clues as to what would happen next, there would be no climax to build towards. It simply happened, completely unscripted. I didn’t try again. After that I found it much easier to fill my time and I only left the house with my mother. We went to the park a lot. It is right behind my flat, through the gate in the back garden. It is big enough that I can watch what’s going on without taking part. I stand at the gate and it is all spread in front of me like a giant Imax screen.

My father left us while I was in the cinema watching Star Wars. He dropped me off saying he’d pick me up after. When the film ended he was nowhere to be seen but my mother was sitting in the foyer crying. I went to see Star Wars every day while it was out. He never met me. I never saw him again. If someone says "I'll be right back", they won't.

I want to see Star Wars just now. It always calmed me down. I should really go to bed. I don’t like my bed – it’s not comfy and the sheets are wrong. Mum says that even if I don’t sleep just lying in bed will rest my body. I don’t think that’s true. I am always too restless to rest. I must sleep sometimes; the doctor says I’d be dead otherwise. He gave me pills to help. I slept a lot until they ran out. I kept forgetting to go back. I like being awake at night anyway. It’s much more peaceful than daytime. As long as I’m ready for seven it’ll be fine. It’s good to have that kind of structure.

After making coffee I go out into the garden and stand at the gate. The sun is setting but it is not yet dark. The park is circular, bordered by trees and houses. During the day it is busy with children and dogs, at night it is home to tramps. I sip my coffee and watch. I am not of the scene; I am the camera. I am the director. As the light fades a man in a suit enters from the left. He is dishevelled. He is carrying a large rucksack and a heavy suitcase. He is crossing the grass with some purpose, heading deliberately for the large clump of trees opposite me. The only other person in the park is a tramp asleep on a bench. I run back into the flat and get my camera. It has a large, powerful zoom lens. Back at the gate I train the camera on the trees. The man has dropped the bags and is digging, half-hidden by the Copper Beech.

I start snapping, the camera freezing moments as he continues to dig. He stops, throws down the shovel and wipes his brow. Snap. He drags the suitcase to the hole. Snap. He pushes it in. Snap. The rucksack follows. Snap. All the years my life was normal. All those disappointments. My headache has gone. The light is blue. He begins to fill in the hole and I begin to run, slow motion, across the grass. I can hear music. From a window somewhere A Day In The Life is playing:

I saw a film today, oh boy.

(included in Latitude: Writing from the Phillipines and from Scotland)

Football Scarves and Richard Kimble

2008-08-23T20:49:00.000-07:00

He wound down the window and pulled in the green and white scarf that hung limp, the wind having died. He carefully placed it round his neck making sure that it didn’t cover the logo or the CR SMITH banner across the front of his shirt.

- C’mon then, we’ve a wee walk ahead of us.

He was tensing up to slam the door, making sure this time, when he noticed them. The army. Marching. An enormous snake of green, white and gold weaving its way through the streets. He’d never seen so many people before; they were everywhere he looked, taking over the city.

- Grand init?

He'd seen this on TV, the crowds, but it was so much bigger. The cameras showing them limited within certain areas, defined by the curve of the stands. This was his first. See it live. Feel the atmosphere. Watch them spilling like liquid into every space. Jock Stein End. Celtic end. Hampden. Magic words. Centenary year. Centenary meant 100. 1888 – 1988. He was eight. That made Celtic 92 years older than him. Older than Grandad.

- Jist like it wiz in the 60’s. Nine in a row. A tell yi a wiz at the games? All a them. Afore an after an aw. Yer Granda drove the bus in ’67. Year we won the European Cup. First British team, first Catholic.

- Billy McNeil was in it, wasn’t he dad?

- Sure was. Great man. Gonnae get us the double this year. Dundee United? Who are they anyway? Orange bastards, scuse my French.

Trying to avoid the muddy puddles so as to keep his socks white he fell in line behind his dad, his colours matching perfectly with the rest. He could hear singing but couldn’t understand most of it.

- Hullo, hullo…

- Oh it’s a grand old team tae play fur…

- Hail Hail…

A big man with a beard was beside him. He had a boy with him in an away strip. He’d wanted one as well but it cost too much for both.

- Better tae have to hoops though, eh?

Still it looked cool.

- Orite bigman? First game?

- Yes.

The beard looked above his head, over at his dad.

- Good choice for a first time eh?

- Aye, centenary and a possible double.

- Nae possible aboot it, in the bag. Naebdy in orange’s gony stand in the way of the Celtic.

- Aye.

The beard was separated from them as the crowd moved on.

- A mind when a wis your age, mibbe a bit younger, the bus takin the Rangers fans tae Hampden aywiz passed the end o our street in Brigton. Wan day me an ma mate went oot in oor full altar boy gear when the bus wis stopped at the lights. We nealt doon on the pavement an blessed the bus.

He laughed as he made a cross in the air.

- They startid bangin on the windaes an then we hears the door openin so wi pegged it. Got chased in an oot o aw the closes. Got skelped by yer Gran fur makin such a mess a me guid claethes.

He tried to imagine doing that himself. Kneeling in front of Rangers fans, intimidating them like that. It didn't make sense though. How do you bless a bus? Apart from making the sign of the cross in the air what else happened? He was still worrying about this when they turned a corner and there it was up ahead. Hampden.

- That’s Scotland’s ground init dad?

- Aye and Queens Park.

This made no sense.

- How can two teams use the same ground?

- Well Scotland dinnae play that many games so Queens Park use it the rest o the time.

- What happens when they both have to play on the same day?

- Never happens.

- But…

- Never happens.

Confused he looked around at the other fans. All so happy. It made him feel happy, welcomed. We are the people. He wasn’t though. His dad had told him that. A teuchter. Not from Glasgow.

- Still, could have been worse. Could be a Hun.

He was from Aberdeen. Sheep-shaggers. He didn’t know what that meant but knew it was bad and not to be said in front of his mum. His friends all supported Aberdeen. He didn’t. Kept getting beaten up for it.

- Who’s better?

- Celtic.

Wallop.

- Who’s better?

- Celtic.

Wallop.

- Who’s better?

- We thrashed ye four-nil. Sheep-shagger.

Wallop.

He just didn’t see the attraction. Red wasn’t a good colour. Green and white was. Plus they kept getting beat. Or drawing. Nil-Nil. Where’s the excitement in that? There was a sneaking suspicion that he should really support his local team but he just got so bored watching them. Couldn’t get worked up like with Celtic.

He saw a vendor selling programmes and scarves.

- Can I have a programme dad?

- Sure, souvenir.

They moved through the crowd until they were at the stand.

- A programme please, pal.

- Sure. His first time?

- Aye.

- Guid day fur it.

- Aye. Glorious.

- Golden sun. Just need a green and white sky.

- Dad, can I have that scarf.

- Yiv got a scarf.

- But look at that wan.

It was amazing. It said CELTIC F.C. in huge white letters down the middle. Above this it said “League Champions 1987 – 88” and below it said “Scottish Cup Winners 1988”. In the bag.

- Yiv got wan.

- But Dad…

- No.

- Look, if it his first game al gie ye it fur two fifty.

- Go on Dad.

- Okay. And dinnae say a niver dae anythin fur ye.

His Dad took the first scarf, put it on and looked at his watch.

- Better get a move on.

- What time is it?

- Quarter to. Fifteen minutes. Did I tell ye about wan game a wiz at? Y’know The Fugitive.

- No.

- It wis a programme that wiz on years ago. About this guy Doctor Richard Kimble. His wife had been murdered and it wiz made to look like he did it.

- Did he?

- No but he wiz arrested then escaped. He knew that a wan armed man hud dun it an the whole series wiz based roond him tryin to find the wan armed man without getting caught. Anyway the last episode wis on at the same time as this game. Wednesday night. Abdy watched The Fugitive but there are mair important things than TV so we went tae the game. Me and yer Granda. So we’re at the game an it gets tae half time and we’ve got oor pies an Bovril an everywans either talkin aboot the game or aboot The Fugitive.

- What wis the score?

- Cannae mind. Anyway the guy comes on the tannoy…

- Whits that?

- The loudspeaker that they use to tell abdy whits happening.

- Like the commentary on TV?

- No, jist things like substitutions. So this guy comes on the tannoy and announces that they’ve found the wan armed man and this huge cheer goes up round the stand. Made abdys night.

They were at the stadium. There were even more people here than on the street. It seemed impossible. The whole world must be here.

- Right, stay close.

Before he realised it they were entering the stand. Celtic end. He looked in front of himself and saw the pitch. Beautiful green. Dark and light stripes like on TV. He saw the goals, where the action would happen. Then he saw the rest of the stadium. So many people. Green and white spilled out in front of him, stopping abruptly when the orange and black began round the other end. The Rangers end Dad called it. It was unbelievable. He felt himself sinking, lost in amongst all the colour. He noticed a huge Irish flag travelling across the top of the Celtic fans. He had a Scotland flag at home on the back of his door. He imagined himself passing the flag across the fans and then felt a sickness as he realised he would never get it back, would lose his Saltire forever. He felt sorry for whoever’s flag it was. He heard a shout and realised he couldn’t move forwards. Looking down he saw a metal bar across his chest. Turnstile. He turned and saw his Dad right behind him, a comforting presence.

- Calm down tae fuck. Jist a kid. First fuckin time. Here ye go.

His Dad handed over the magical tickets, the ones that had come a month ago through the post. They’d been waiting when he came home from school. Big pieces of paper, a dotted line half way along. Celtic V’s Dundee United in huge letter across the front, loads of small writing on the back.

- On you go then.

He felt a hand on his back and stumbled forwards, the turnstile moving around him. He felt a ticket stub being pushed into his hand. He held it close to him, afraid to lose it as a huge cheer went up. A shiver ran down his back.

First fucking time.

(Included in The Hope That Kills Us, an anthology of short stories about Scottish Football, published by Freight, 2002).

Bobbin

2008-08-23T20:46:00.000-07:00

So there I was just the other day, sitting in the Bobbin over a quiet pint with Dan, the funny one you'll remember. So anyways I turned to him and said something along the lines of "Do you remember the days of our youth lad, those crazy first year days when the sun was a distant memory and the low grade Spar vodka flowed freely in our veins and rooms, when students were students and the Loft was called The Elf?"

"Vaguely" Dan replied sharpening that legendary wit on another Murphy's."Those were the days of Dickens, Hamlet and Monday nights with Irish John. Them were great days. Whatever 'appened to em?"

"We grew old lad" I replied thinking that now, at almost twenty and one I was nearly fully grown up and therefore nearly dead.

It reminded me of a time, years before when I was sitting in our local, a dirty little den that made its income chiefly from exploiting underage delinquents like myself, and I turned to my mate Barry who had just made an even bigger tit of himself by smashing a beer glass with a stray cue ball from the ever ripped pool table in the corner beside the bandit and said to him.
"God lad, we'll be teenagers soon. Ain't the days passin' right quick. It seems only yesterday that we nicked that forklift and drove it down the road at a heady but still quite safe speed of fifteen miles per hour."

To which Barry, ever the realist replied "It was fookin yesterday ye daft twit. Look I've still got that bruise from where the you caught me with the forks."

He was right an all, there it sat raised and purple like the heather on some far flung Yorkshire moor, highlighted by the dull glow of his Lambert and Butler Light.

I was brought back to the Bobbin by the sound of Dan's exclamation that it was my turn to brave the obstacle course of rugby players in order to procure us another round of the black stuff. "Aye were getting on a bit now lad, sooner or later you'll find us in some smoky pub nursing pints while we sit and reminisce about our youth." Groaning as I forced my tired old legs up from the stool, recently converted from a beer keg I received a monetary note slipped into the palm of my hand by the ever-ready Dan. “My round” he said, “I just wanted to see if you’d go for it.”

I wasn’t impressed by his cheek but it had taken me long enough to stand up so I thought a may as well make the trip now. Anyway my bladder isn’t what it used to be and I felt that a trip to the lavatory was an increasing necessity.

I stood at the bar contemplating the random factor graffiti of “Beware the Caribou” which adorned the wall above the urinal, an unusual warning in central Aberdeen but I heeded it with due care and consideration and, upon receiving the two pints of Murphy’s which I had instructed the bar person to prepare for me, I looked both ways before setting out into the throng of Bobbin customers.

It had now been some ten minutes since I had left Dan at the table and he greeted me with the same introspective left wing look he gives to anyone brave enough to approach his table.

“Here’s your change lad” I told him, placing the pints on the wobbly table surface, careful not to waste any of the beverage and handing him his change.

“£1.20 out of a fiver. Not bad.” he said looking pleased. “But when you were walking back you carried a beverage in your right hand which is two fingers.”

I had forgotten that we were playing International Beveraging Rules and pretended to curse as I was forced into downing a small but welcome portion of my drink.

“Oi, you mentioned the d- word in your monologue” Dan butted in, forcing me into taking some more of the non-bitter liquid.

“Still we’re only third years at the moment” I said to him after swallowing as much as I could. “Not passed it yet.”

“And at this rate we’re not going to pass it” Dan replied unleashing his semantic flexibility with rapid and effective force.

“Oh you little wit” I replied, mumbling the ‘w’ of wit in order to make it sound similar to shit which was what I was trying to say in my aged, round about sort of way. Still we’d probably last a bit longer if we just stayed away from the bar and its caribou. Which, of course, we won’t.

(published on www.defenestrationmag.net)

Matthias Sindelar

2008-08-23T20:31:00.000-07:00

After conquering Austria, Hitler combined the two nation's football teams. Austria played one last game, against Germany, before succumbing. They won, Sindelar scoring the winning goal. He became a symbol of Austrian rebellion. Within a year he was found dead, gassed in his flat.

I made football warlike,
Taking a stand in our final game.
Two became one: anchluss.

I am not a border to be roller over.
No salute like the Munich appeasers;
Play to the whistle, lads.

A goal. A bloody nose.
Swastika arms flap at the leather globe,
It slips from their grasp. We won.

Later, stiff with death,
I became a trophy for my people.
Breathing gas, merely the first.

This is more than life and death:
This is war, my Austria.
Play to the whistle, lads.

(published on www.footballpoets.org)

Red Maple

2008-08-23T20:21:00.000-07:00

Two minds enjoined;
New green shoots twisting together.

A ship seen in the dark;
One light for port, another for starboard.

Four people watch a sunrise;
A palette of different colours.

Two flames burn into one;
Pierre is here.

Every mattress and grave cried,
Life is less hid in the vein.

The Spring wave crashes.
Seagulls scream out its power.
Pierre is not here.

Great big beat letters
shining through the clouds
let us know.

The snow lies still on
a desert. Neither
are barren anymore.

I am nightswimming.
I need no water, I fly
through the air tonight.

White spray.
The turn and tumble of broken glass.
Blood.
A dying fisherman:
“I do this to survive”.

Everything toned in grey.
A scream,
An open window.
A man, falling:
“I’m glad I had the courage”.

A weariness at returning
is already in my bones.
The sun is setting.

An old man hobbles by.
I tie my plant
To a lollipop stick.

The same sun.
I must go out
before it sets.

It’s summer!
What’s the difference
Now I’ve graduated?

My block of flats.
I think of the tree
I climbed as a child.

New acquaintances;
Midnight sun slowly rising
Over setting seas.

It’s Christmas; plastic
Bobbles hang from
A dead, artificial tree.

Fifty years until Winter.
I make decisions
Which shut doors on me.

I drew my line in the sand against God.
The tide came in.

Spring.
An island in the fjord.
Woodsmoke and rabbits.

5000 miles
is not so much.
A phone rings.

Tetsugaku no michi -
the path of philosophy.
Teddy bears fish beneath blossom.

Rain on the rice field,
New plants wave in the ripples.
Sakura was just here.

The boats last night sat
dejected as spinning tops
now float purposefully.

In the spring
Near the Silver Temple
The blossom
Floats like confetti
On the canal.

Spring is fighting through.
The bitter wind replies.

When I see the full moon
In the still black water
I think of a girl
Who does not think of me.

The chef has
A white towel
Round his head.
I think of my father.

Fallen lemons
Floating in the Kiso
Remind me of us
Lost in the forest
Last summer.

A solitary crane
Rests beside the river.
I wonder where you are.

August.
Cattle graze
In Bristo Square

Yews stretch from the graveyard:
“The sun’s going to where we’re going.”

Summer hangs heavy
In the air. Black coy leap on
Tengu yama

Autumn Solitude

2008-08-23T20:11:00.000-07:00

This was intended to be my second collection of poetry after the self-financed publication of Fences We Build in 1999. A few of the poems from the first collection were included in this.

Silent In The Dark

I sit here, silent in the dark,
Wait the heartbeat of the stair.
Her light feet barely catch the creak
Trick my mind that she isn’t there.
She comes, the click of door announcing
The air change from spring to autumn.

Beauty in that moment comes,
Emptying me like a golden tree
Ready for the onslaught of spring.
Open my arms swing, caught in the wind
And, the season changing, curve back,
Holding everything together.

Change comes easy.
Walls collapse and mercury rises.
Cymbals reunite then bugles stop.
Lines are filled with silence until a note,
Solitary and deep, echoes from the sound;
The judgement is cancelled for another year.

‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty’ lies ripped on the floor,
Defeated, torn by the real of the moment,
No truth just faith and the knowledge of more.
The curtains exhale in the dark
And light circles your sleeping head, my love.

Autumn Solitude

So this is where the pieces land.
I remember the leaves falling.
It was like autumn. An autumn
Of memories whispering
Through orange air.

Don Coyote

I recall many days like this,
Their outlines blurring vague, as clouds
Streak across the summer sky.
Sitting with an array of friends
Over amber and black pints, wine
And spirits that mark out our days
Like sand-time dripping. Apathy
And a lack of imagination
Forced us here again and again.
The beer and the banter are good:
That laugh of an old story told
To those who were there, reaffirmed
Bonds, a shared past: this is it all.

Our memories are of nights out,
Birthdays and aftershow parties;
Boxes of Don Coyote bought
For 10.99; empty bags
Inflated supporting our heads
In Urquhart Road. We met in pubs,
Spent our time there discussing love,
Football and essays, complaining
Of overwhelming debt while
Switching another round. Homework
In the Bobbin, pitchers of Grolsch,
Twenty B&H, phones buzzing
As others became free and joined,
Coaxing those who were there to stay.

Now, a year after that July
When we raised a glass in our gowns
And left: some for Italy,
Ireland, Glasgow, jobs
And yet more degrees, where am I?
Still in a pub in Aberdeen,
An empty glass stained with Guinness,
Twenty Marlboro Light that scream
SMOKING KILLS and the memory
Of Dan, four pints of Ossians
Down, his cardigan buttoned up,
And singing for those who could hear:
“We all live in a pub in Aberdeen,
A pub in Aberdeen, a pub in Aberdeen.”

Snapshot

There an angel lay
traced by the sun
and the lightning strike
of war correspondence.

The Sniper

While waiting, the sniper with poised finger
Over snap crack trigger concealing unquiet death.
Watching in silence, controlling the ribs of every breath.
Moving eyes, lashes make no sound
As the mountain trees mountain of landscape
Pass by the Polaroid look. Never turn.
When looking behind aim twitches left
Like a swallow caught in an autumn wind
And all the past is undone by paranoia.
Someone’s after you. There are only so many times
A branch can sway before realisation.
Who is messing with nature? And why?

I turn and the look is there, secreting something.
My finger twitches but the trigger is taut,
Fire won’t come, the tunnel refusing to light.
Flares blaze the sky and the enemy comes
Dancing seductively from the dark, whirling its arms
In straitjacket waltz.
Pull two three,
Turn two three, shoot two three, fall two three.

Mute

We lie in bed, facing different walls –
Different futures. In silence.

I come to a decision, formulate words,
Words that swell and swell
Building up waves that
Break and break into me.
I try to spit it out but my mouth
Is crammed with sand.
Salt has entered my wounds.
Just as the words come to break from my lips
A subtle undertow rips me from the shore,
Washes the words away.

Fences We Build
“Good fences make good neighbours”
- Robert Frost, Mending Walls.

You, friend.
You shone down through my clouds,
Conducted my symphony of lightning,
Muffled my thunder.
I could unleash rain with you
I could let the downpour come –
40 days and 40 nights of tears – burst banks
That washed the debris away.
Then at the right time, you brought me in.

I could hang my soul on you,
Let it drip, drip, drip dry
Until the rain had gone and I could set out
Anew, refreshed, to pick my way
Through the destruction of the flood.

And I did likewise for you.
That was our downfall.

We were once inseparable.
Now I could not spot you in a crowd,
Could not pick you out and say

You, you,
You are my friend.

Footsteps

Floorboards
waver like see-saws;
a milestone in someone’s life
echoing into silence.

The Cairn

There’s a cairn on a beach in Skye.
It stands tall, overcast by the cliff face -
Itself shadowed by the sun behind me.
Inclined towards the waves it begs the tide,
It seems to dream of the slide back to sea
To be remoulded like old poetry.

The oldest rocks sit at the back,
Barnacled they wait to crack.

Over the island raw fires burn on hills.
Cremated heather scars the sides
And skeleton grass sparkles in the evening glow.

The cairn surveys it all
Like some citadel: its city ablaze.

The rabbits make marram whisper with words,
The soft maze and earth their world.
The white-capped mainland
Seems so near at hand
But the face of the world is curled.

The oldest rocks sit at the back,
Barnacled they wait to crack.

But the locals move on regardless.
Like the cairn they will be here long after.

The oldest rocks sit at the back,
Barnacled they wait to crack.

You’re Still

You’re still with me, like smoke.
Your scent clings,
Paint to canvas
Describing the night to me.

You’re still. A frieze framed.
Frozen, statue-esque
Somewhere between
Reality and me.

Bronzed you stand,
Burned by the sun of my stare.
A hair’s length away,
Your imprint still moulding the pillow.

Your shadow is still warm.
Your aura lingering like smoke.

Lament

At first glance everything is dead.
Silent storm swept trees are barren,
Ruins of their summer splendour –
With black plastic ravens perched
Scorning, like the hawks in these hills.

The ancient church is a shadow.
Nature has taken its roof, only
Four walls and an altar remain
While strain shows on its successor,
Times beacon in these hills. Silent.

Even daffodils, springs offspring,
Lie amputated stem and stump.
Shoulders slumped against your headstone.
Skeletons of a beautiful
Bloom on a mortuary slab.

Yet reminders are everywhere:
Yews, like flashcards say: “I’m still here”,
Stand, guards shrouded in evergreen cloaks.
Two of them. Grasping for the moon,
Waving a familiar goodbye.

And daffodils, royal mourners,
Are returning to their kingdom
To reign light – the rain of the dead –
Watering the living with tears,
Their crowned heads bow in lamentation.

Lac Leman

He stood in stance as Jesus Christ
Who up a top the Olive Mount
In peaceful garb did break the wave
Of future times to those below.
He drank the wine above the lake
From broken glass poured blood to mouth.
Communed with water, now as one,
Baptised in ice of Lac Leman.
Immersed ‘neath blue of mountain flow
Heroically he screamed his pain.
The miracle became erased:
The healthy man now lame becomes.
He calling forth the name of God
Did froth and foam like rabid dog.
The wine turned water soaked him through
And lo he needed cloth of new.
He staggered round from street to street
Like Leper in the Roman times
And mumbled incoherently
Like those in Glasgow, Friday night.

I.
News

Uproar faces presidents.
Records. Tabloid inquiry.
Boys judge lottery remains.
American black gay politicians.
Real comedic public business.
There’s profit still…
Rewards
Accolades
Finds
A comprehensive first.

II.
Review

No ignorance himself.
The village has few features.
Our media distribution after this law…

Top art abstraction –
Wet, excluded south UK children are boiling.

Timely

New time.

III.
Supplement.

Talk your way into Scotland
With speech and language therapy.
Let us care for your community,
Putting an end to the exclusion zone,
Offering a service to young families with kids
While taking care over the border.
We want you to work with us in Ayrshire.
The Highlands are the place to be.
Scotia is fighting for modern, quality dialects.
Can you resist the pull of the east?
We provide support and back up everywhere.
Can you afford not to be there?

Ice Age

the eternal glaciers are melting
the vessel has reached the weir
and is carried on with the wash

(tumbling towards the water
he will never walk across)

he marches on with the mourners

Guinness

Like night it comes, raw black drawn on the sky,
A fog which blocks but holds onto all sight,
A hurricane with clouds spilled round the eye,
White horses pulling darkness into light.
The waves don’t break but segregate themselves.
Like words a spiral galaxy revolves
With one full moon at rest on raven shelves.
Towards completeness all of this evolves.
It settles, sand caught dormant by the swell
Resuming sleep exhausted by its haste.
I drop my bucket deep into the well,
I feel the breakers hit me and I taste.
The cream dissolves on hitting foreign shores
And all is one – pure genius evermore.

Sonnet

Shall I compare thee to a Scottish day?
Thou art more cold than temperate.
Your summer is o’er by the start of May
You walk like winter with a gallus gait.
Sometimes too harsh the eye of women shines
An oft by thunder clouds is beauty dimmed.
An every girl from fair at times declines
To blow hot wind that fills her soul untrimmed.
But thy eternal Autumn shall not fade.
For e’er thou shalt lose all the fair thou own’st.
Thy bright sun shall always be in shade;
Eternal lines deep on thy face do grow’st.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see
So long lives this, and this image of thee.

Coming

life is victim to the whims of the why
and the sky
falls down into the path of night
victim to the how’s of when
where it all began
and we question the flow
as if it is a puzzle
a trick of the light
and the answer’s because.

Music

Water running over pebbles
originally calm but reaching rapids,
bursting over dams.
Guilty Dictum

Think about making a person.
A person is to be stimulating
To fundamental principles.

Consider interaction: might these suggest a history of concept?
The possibility of an inherently deep-seated
Banished simplicity
Ministered with pleasance?
(A love unlibidinous was understood)

Fade, End

With the slant of sun
through the window
they touched

Light fades. He leaves.
It ends like this, always –
The bedroom in dark.