I’d be there alone, the stub of man-made hill swept to the very back of a park field. Wide and flat, stubbled with short comfy grass cut to the same barber’s setting as the unfussy aluminium heads of parish council bungalow-owners. Soft grey and subdued, loose air hangs limp between the occasional empty threats from the lazy wind. A single jumper-ed figure has been dripping gradually along the grass’ edge like condensation down the upstairs windows beyond the border hedges. The price of good insulation. When his speck reaches the park’s breathing mouth, his surface tension holds him there for a handful more shallow lungs of summer-autumn incense, sifting down under the apple trees. And then he falls out. And I wash with the familiar relief of finding myself alone. Unwatched, I spill out and fill the entire space, unpacking as to move in for the fertile minutes of intermission between the dogwalker’s sparse dayshifts.
Boxes And Boxes And Boxes
Boxes and boxes and boxes.
Every June forever.
The longest day blown apart.
No reflection in a bustling river.
Blotted sky takes its longest to die.
From a seat on the long green bank.
Or a teleporting train threading nowheres.
You have to become so utterly still to make room for the colossal motion.
The quiet pause at the very arc of a year-long swing.
The moment momentum runs out.
And it realises the implications of everything it tore through.
Now that the velocity is abandoned.
The clarity unblurs in every halted direction.
You stop being it.
And suddenly there is room for it.
Good god.
What have I done?
Cool Of The Shade
Branches wave at me through the depths of a cloud-domed darkened dawn. Wear my worn out trainers for a casual day again, Or harsh splitting boots if there’ll be ice on the floor. I can’t slip into the road again and spill my confidence. I don’t want to go, I just want to live in your warm quiet arms again. The valley where shattered sun fragments fold and puddle into a day. Breeze into my brain, Like a street curb in summer, As sweat dotted handlebars slip, From a loose untroubled grip, Feel the cool of the shade and I welcome it.
The Grange
How many times did I ride past that fence ally entrance and assume it was still intact, just beyond the mouth of the walkway? One of countless mazing pedestrian threads that quietly turn off from the road to web behind the green gappy suburbs of a newish city. The opening act of my life spent dragged around these inner sections. And one of their most highly regarded corners is this play park, on one edge of a continent of fields. Against the borders of stretching allotments when sitting on the swings one way, and on a distant edge of the vast grass between the pleasantly angular lines of a prefab house horizon when spun around to the other. A weathered wooden assault course with platforms and jumps, shifting planks, and swinging cyan rope that is rough on your hands. Bars and steps over vertical levels suspended high above the bark impact below. Ankle shocks and summer sweat, scuffing shoes and aching arms, creaking chains and the taste of watermelon.
I was brought along last minute to Ivano’s after school. His grandmother convinced my mum in the school playground. She walked us over wide and familiar pavements with large flat slabs that lay cracked and uneven. We twist through the back roads of tesselating homes and down a path I haven’t seen before, opening out into fields I never suspected grew lush, veiled just off a familiar street. We played unfair games at my expense on the best playpark I had ever imagined.
Throughout childhood, I returned many times with all kinds of close people from that part of my life. Even after we moved out, I would find myself there a few scattered times with old friends from beyond. Still, after that last afternoon sitting on the swings, looking out across the flat planes of growing up, on the edge of an old spot at the edge of an old stage of youth, talking and playing more honestly than I have often since, I have on occasion drifted past that point where the path turns off, and thought of good times.
I found out today it isn’t there anymore. I wonder how long it’s been that way? How many times did I look into that entrance, catching the shading trees, the garden fence alley, the slight glimpse of wide open lawn, and think of being a happy kid? Just finding joy in climbing stuff and falling to the ground over and over again at my favourite playpark. Simply assuming it was still there. How many times did I peer into a pathway to the past without realising that it had been built over? Without realising that the obstacles, the wood, the eaten rubber, and the fraying blue rope, the framework for a simple kind of happiness that becomes hard to come by, exists now only in the warm swimming memories of dry days, long afternoons, and yellowing grass. A much smaller world that somehow contained everything you could want, including a place as wonderful as that one park.
The Last Day Of June
Today I fell into a pit. Today I ate too much spicy food. Today I didn’t sing very well. Today I listened to all my artefacts. Today I woke up early and left the house late. Today I let the hours slip through my fingers. Today I picked the wrong side of the road to walk home on. Today I ate my whole lunch bag too early. Today my guitar didn’t sound in tune. Today my pedal said it was. Today I looked at maps. Today I copied graphs. Today I spoke some wise words from dark times. Today I noticed the painting hung above the stairs. Today I cancelled abandoned meetings. Today I saw too much. Today I couldn’t look away. Today my head spun like an umpire’s. Today my sandwich had yellow pepper. Today I smacked pillows and blankets. Today I learnt about our videos. Today I consumed our videos. Today I stapled a chunky report. Today I took my time writing a long address on a large envelope. Today my handwriting was tall and nearly neat. Today I lined up the red stamps. Today I curled the envelope to force it past the narrow postbox mouth. Today nothing happened in the small square outside the window. Today I batted a ping pong ball to the beat of my headphones. Today I heard far away voices through my headphones. Today I started my sentence without unmuting my mic first. Today I flicked out short emails. Today the backs of my legs went numb for a while. Today the screen of my hand-me-down phone stayed on for too long. Today I let too much of the wide world into my own atmosphere. Today rush hour felt more rushed than it has. Today a delivery driver materialised from nowhere down a quiet side street. Today gnarled men sped their bikes off the parkway and into the crowded crossing. Today they scared the silent lady next to me and laughed at her as they passed. Today the other guy plowed ahead juggling tennis balls. Today three people waiting at a crossing feels crowded. Today my teeth didn’t thank the water cooler. Today I ate numerous home-baked cookies. Today I saw a magpie. Today our neighbour’s cat watched me as I reached my front door. Today I woke up two minutes before my alarm. Today I showered but didn’t wash my hair. Today my book sat in my backpack unread. Today my hands smell of red spring onions. Today I enjoyed taking off my shoes and socks. Today I opened the window and listened to the birds call across the valley. Today I didn’t spend any money. Today is the last day of June.
Made Of Wet
Wet days in summer. The rain shimmering as it beats on the warehouse roof and fills the quietly overgrowing ditch behind the building. Puddles splurge, swallowing up the parts of the road you ride your bike on. The smell of fresh saturation radiates in through the entrances, across the crisp borders of shelter drawn on the concrete in two tones. The sky reaches all the way low to the surface and engulfs it. Continue packing boxes while swimming in a cloud. Outside the widest vastest space to feel free in. Welcomes you by eating into your dry clothes, making you part of it until you aren’t concerned with getting wet anymore. Speak into the cloud expanse, so sheer as to never sense the sound’s reflections. Remember underneath how much you are made of wet inside. Rejuvenating soup, breathe in the vapours deeply. The long, untrimmed summer grass in a rustling dance, moving as though marionette strings puppet each blade. Pattering. The strings flicker like static and tap dance across the purple-brick car park, the plastic sheet roofs, and the smoothening, shifting gravel. Past the left-open-window or hung-out-washing worries of onlookers, briefly paused to peer out from thick offices. The fields beyond the iron fence drink deeply. The splattered illusion of greens shining through the dense air, flora heaving gracefully to life in the humidity.
Miniature explosions pepper windshields and gutters, flat leaves and lamp covers. Uncountable sounds blur and bleed into each other. The whole business park hums pure noise.
Quit Vision 