Creaking Mooring Giants by Peter Reiling

Perhaps I was trying to build a structure, somewhere for the words to sit. Still the sporadic nature of my mind leads me away from discipline. I am not a disciplined man. I received too much at an early age. Marching to breakfast, lunch and dinner every day for five years left me with a bitter taste in my mouth. I don’t wear uniforms anymore and I don’t polish my boots or brass. In the beginning, I was in Venice. Actually, that’s not true. In the beginning I’d just woken up after one week. My neck felt robotic. A mixture of desire, confusion and frustration predicated a need to write. I have to continue. But that was the beginning of it all. The day I heard the wood creak, I was in Venice. Venice is a good place for a romantic to be.

To the Sound of

Creaking mooring giants, rigid, split and standing fast, twisted round one another like so many drinking straws in a child’s careless hands.

Ciao Venezia!

And the Calzone’s puffed up and rustic looking with that oh so Italian dollop of pomodoro sauce napped across the top; nonchalant and deft like so many smoozing shoulders on the corners of Venice. The air is hot and humid, whilst the shade cools the young Dutch girl speaking with a dental lisp due to her newly fitted brace, creating a plaintive, almost scared intonation to her voice. Her lone Father lets out a desperate sigh as I suck on my gelato.  I’m amongst firm footed pedestrians, floating on mud and lost in Venice.

By St Angelo Vaporetto station on the Grand Canal some in built directional system, over which I have no control, led me back to a few places. I watch the Gondoliers touting for business by the Ponte Rialto. With their dark brown attitude and arrogant pout it’s never long before someone is attracted. So a group comes along with one of their party being in a wheelchair. I can see the questions being asked from the way their heads nod and their eyes move. The Gondolier doesn’t much like it, but what the hell it is still money.

Small woody barber shops, warm and red with the patina of love and history soaked in to the walls, loose hairs brushed away from leaning necks. But it’s not romance that built this city. Trade, wealth, competition and a healthy slice of blood and sweat go a long way towards romance; the throw away image, visual recall and the suppression of violence. Whilst I’m thinking all this  a French woman sitting next to me (I know she’s French because I heard her talking already) is explaining to her little boy what I’m doing. Peering over my shoulder the way she is, looks like the woman’s interested too, I even make my handwriting a tad more illegible; mainly for my self-inflated ego with a little left over for paranoia. That her child is peering over his Mother’s shoulder who is peering over mine; asking her “Mummy, Mummy, what’s that man writing about?” And the Mother answering…”I don’t know…” Only then to give a warm Motherly embrace and a kiss for fear that if she doesn’t show him enough love he might end up too insular, too solitary and with a propensity towards the malaise.

 

 

I’m thinking of Briggs now.

The waiter’s clearing up the tables and dragging chairs inside.  Soft and balmy 11pm air is soothing my sun drenched skin. No amount of beer seems to get me drunk and the cigarettes still feel amazing. Hopefully all will go to plan and my beloved Hanna will arrive in half an hour. In the meantime I shall just sit here in the Punta Sabbione bus park with Venice just 20minutes away and continue to write.

I flick through the pages for a while. Nothing comes at me but that balmy air is keeping me calm. Over my right shoulder the muted machinations of propellers churning up salt fill the night. My mind churns back through the minutes and hours of bygone days; Ward Sergeant Briggs steps through the door.

Briggs is old and infirmed now, living in a home for retired servicemen. Everyday at twelve the dinner ladies come round with lunch. Leek and potato soup on Mondays and curries on Wednesdays. I’m at the hospital one day, talking to my old man when Briggs comes over; it’s the first time we’ve met.

“Are you the one… who done all those paintin’s… on ya Dad’s wall?” The old boy’s voice was rickety and splintered. Pauses and gaps in his diction made sense with his age.

“The paintings, yeah, their mine.” I told him.

“Oh..I done some wood carvings in my room. Come an av a look.” He didn’t ask me if I wanted to see them, he just told me. I wanted to see anyway.

On the way down to Mr. Briggs’ berth he told me about his stroke and how he couldn’t use his hands anymore. We had to walk slowly, Mr. Briggs had a Zimmer.

“Can’t even pick up a bloody pencil nowadays.” There was a hint of annoyance, but also acceptance in his voice. First he showed me the wood carvings and marquetry pieces. Most of them were generic and fairly unimaginative. I went for the ones that weren’t.

“What’s that one ?” I said, pointing to an abstract marquetry piece, basically a composition of triangles. I asked Mr. Briggs what his inspiration had been.

“Well…that’s maple wood….. I was having trouble… working with the grain…. The ruler fell on it, then I saw all these triangles.” It was a good piece. I picked out another.

“What about that one?” A figure climbing a tree but it looked like it was holding on for dear life. All the branches were drooping in to the ground and the figure was beginning to slide.

“It’s a dream.” He chuckled nervously; didn’t want me to see what he could see. There were pencil drawings of WW1 dog fights, one of the Germans going down; second rate copies. A watercolour of a cyclist that turned out to be Brigg’s and moved us on to his cycling ventures. The medals he’d received from the Cycling Touring Club, 20,000 K’s here, 15,000 there. Journeys I thought everyone on their little journeys.

“Ere…this’ll make your air stand on end” Typewritten on green paper, Briggs handed over his account of the North Eastern Spanish tour. The account was mostly factual, nothing creative in the words except that he’d actually written them which is a creative act in itself but I don’t think he saw it that way.

I walked back to my old man’s berth and he was riled at me for not spending the time with him. I’m glad I spent it with Briggs.

Ultimately another half-edged bet to nowhere

The pen somersaults in my hands, its nib dotting the ends of my fingers with small black marks; visual history or stains of thought, I can't decide which. One tentative trill of aggravated queuers’ serpentine their way to the left as curly blonde cripples scrape down the street with their leather flat caps worn a kilter on top a veritable bufon of rippled locks. That line I like. It could be the beginning of something, a poem, a painting, maybe the next line.

My Jotter

Torn flakes of cheap paper and jean fluff from my back pocket are stuck between my fingernails from the half a page of drivel I ripped out of my Jotter yesterday, easing out from their cuticle homes and floating through the air like blue cotton wool. Grey light is in the mist again but already I’ve got impetus, just from watching those nuts with their habit brollies raised…

 

Again

I find it easier to read the diary of a madman at six oclock in the morning, with two minutes to spare before the arrival of the Bank train. A distant ruffle of ubiquitous tabloid drivel accentuates the moment. Frustration at the awareness I’m losing the most productive hours of my day to this omnipresent, festering quagmire of draconian work makes me pick.. up.. my.. pen…. again! At least, I think to myself, if I can use the time spent traveling to and from work, working, thinking, playing, I can keep going. Purge myself creatively, so to speak.

 

Money Madness

 

I’m too tired to write

I have two

blister’s

in the same

place

one on either foot

 

a calming

black woman

reads

a

surgical procedures

document

on the

6.30

to Bank

 

Extramedullary technique

using

the

spike arm

 

 

all patched

up

with tired

lines

and gaping yawns

eyes seeking solace

in the

middle

distance

 

Paparazzo

lunge at

Mills

one suit

from the

FT

to the Sun

Money Madness.

The workplace

Some of them have been on the phones for twelve years.

I heard a bang from outside my window. I always assume it’s a firework but it was just the one bang, no more in quick succession afterward like you’d expect with fireworks. Well, should I go check? Strange sounds cut with the wind, slight and enticing. Mechanic trills mix with electronic vibes and the cadence of my prose. Muted rhythms from my neighbour’s wall blur the music to a din. Piaff voice slices through the haze and again, I have no regrets. Apart from this piece of absurd writing and the knowledge that this type of absurd is a trillion miles removed from the actual absurd of which I am trying, in vain, to get some kind of a handle on.

Misconstrued verbosity

Musicians

Artists

Or at least, they think they are

I remain sceptical of that

The Voice Mail chatters away in the back of my head

The Team Leaders hover, their pedantic comments spewing forth around me.

Middle aged women

Dried up

Lost

Social misfits

Freaks with eyes to the left

Mr. Pain of A.J Pain Waste Management is not in.

Systematically picking the phone up and putting it down; up, down, up, down. Run to the lavatory for a quick piss and a long drink of water, and then back to the booths. Right legs shake with anxiety as Dr Morris nods with knowing. I’m swimming around with the dregs in this place and I can almost smell it. In the booth opposite is a man who’ll be 62 in November. He moaned about the smell of all the smokers in the lift one day.

“Ohhpff God, when are you people gonna stop smoking?” No one responded to this facetious remark so I said.

“When are you going to start?” Equally sarcastic.

“Never, because I’m intelligent.” He looked at me hard from over the top of his reading glasses.

That was it between me and him. I knew after a remark like that there was nothing more I needed to know from this guy. His eyes look like they’re going to pop out of his head any minute and his face is twisted, red and dire.

Plenty of young black kids with their fuck off attitude, eyes hard to the wall, backs turned, not letting you in. I’m in this hole for money and Kazeem’s still tapping those keys with feral energy. His left leg is emaciated and crippled. Must be at least a foot shorter than his right leg and wears a large metal plate underneath his left shoe to make up the difference. Happiness and strength emanate from his soul..

A conversation picks up.

            “What do you think of Boris’ handling the flag?” The Olympic handover.

Her resp’s not having any of it. “Not my thing.” He says. “I don’t like all the razzamatazz. I prefer the amateur sports.” Then comes out with some comment about the dumbing down of all humanity. There’s plenty of people with big ideas in this place. Plenty of people with their noses turned up to society and their faces in the dirt.

            Those curly vowels and that expectorant tongue must really piss the clients off. I was staring straight in to his red, pitted face this morning, over the shelf of my booth. Peering intently whilst his eyes were fixed on the screen. Wobbling as he walks he stops

to retrieve the Eccles cake that’s been sitting at the bottom of his bag all week.  He’s an overgrown child, socially inept and probably still living with his Mum, well in to his forties. His eyes droop at the corners like an old Mastiff as he juggles his vocabulary to hit another strike.

            The beards, the hands, the nose curves and disinterested smiles. The wanton dreams in to time, desperate gasps, sinking heads and recumbent necks; I want them all. A mixture of sweet chilli sauce and mayonnaise makes the escalope tricky to handle; I manage somehow. Still burping I reach for my pen and the indigestion tablets.  Open my little yellow jotter, let the ink flow and breath a sigh of relief. Half a closed ear sneers through the slit of an open door. What you listening to Buddy? But I’m only talking to the ear, not the man behind it. At the back of the sandwich cue stands a stressed out little guy, scratching his temples red; City Wired. I pause for a moment to consider ironing out all the Americanisms but there are too many creases and besides, the crevasses they form are deep and alluring.

            So these are the people I’m surrounded by. Wired up city kids with skin disorders, socially inept and resentful divorcees with BO, cripples, forty year old choo choo boys, drunken English cricketing eccentrics who only watch amateur sports to bolster their feelings of intellectual superiority, 4ft women with spines the shape of triangles, 20% of next weeks A&E casualties to roll in at 3 in the morning with a split cheek and no shoulder to lean on and me.  But I want to get a handle on the people, right?

            Haggard, soft lavender lines with bows and tails of hair and life. Seedy, idealistic queers with absolutely no dress sense and even less reason to care what the fuck I might think about it. Noses that’ve sniffed untold numbers of untold drinks and every drop retained with olfactory magnificence. Old Mexicans lugging cheap English beer in the heavy damp air, staring with the glazed eyes of men who bailed out years ago. Green painted walls flake and peel. You can reveal something new by walking backwards sometimes but if you pick at your scabs too often, they’ll become infected.

 

Budgerigars

 

I figure I’ll open up my yellow Jotter again, anywhere, see what jumps at me. The word Hypermarkets catches my eye. Why was I writing about Hypermarkets? I don’t want to read anymore, just remember; see how much the picture’s changed. I cave in immediately and take another peek at the Jotter. Budgerigars…., now I remember. They had clipped wings and just perched atop their poles, chirping who knows what haunt. I like the word. Budgerigars I mean, reminds me of another chap with sticky lungs and dancing birds outside the Tate one day in autumn.

Something about ‘another bum’ came in to my head. My thoughts were derogatory and superior, self-inflating. Bloody bum, I thought. Looked him straight in the eye and made him damn sure I wasn’t interested, didn’t have the time of day, so fuck off thank you very much, get out of my sight and go boil your lips.

 

PROFILE THINGS

Silky budgerigar feet

Climbing up and down ladders

Walking the rope.

Keeper stops the music

Coughing,

Tells tale of hernia applied pressure to lungs

Sticky throat

Arms akimbo

Hot heat  

Bloomsbury summer shade

Working its relaxant charms

Muscles tired with aching.

 

Conscience of oneself burning the core

Invisible eyes floating on a stage of their own

Making, waking, faking purple lines.

Why, time is of the essence now my boy;

How many of these waking hours will you squander, fretting over wasted time? 

Sinuous, residual memories

The omnipotent trap.

 

I met Tony in Trafalgar Square some time between 2006/07 I can’t remember exactly. I was going to the national gallery.

 

TONY BOLLONI

 

Me mate said to me, he said ere, Tony Bolloni. What's that ya drinking there?

VP I told im.

If ya ga dun there, towads St James, there's an Offi on the corner, second left. I could get me bottle o' VP in there, this were a few year ago like, I could get me VP in there for £1.99, £1.99. Now the same bottle o'costya £3.99. We're makin it and they're takin it.

 

The first thing Tony Bolloni said to me was

Ere Biggun…….. Biggun……Eh Biggun

 

I turned round on the third, even though I knew he was talking to me the moment he opened his mouth. I guess a mixture of apprehension and plain ignorance stopped me from acknowledging him straight away.

 

Ere Biggun, who said ya can't avva drink in Trafalgar Square?

I don't know, who said it? Was my reply.

 

Between the moments of silence, which became less awkward the more we spoke, Toni began to open up with me. He was clearly homeless and his attempts to hide it were completely transparent. However, I think no matter how down a man becomes; it takes a lowly sort to admit it readily.

Ah..! My words are so clumsy. The brevity of honesty will do him better justice.

 

Ya doun ere fa long?

I live in London.

So do I mate, just over the river I am.

 

I want to look at some paintings but…..

 

I asked Tony how long he'd been in London.

 

Nearly 50 years now.

 

He didn't look much older than 55.

 

15 years?

No Fifty. I'll be 58 this year, must've come dan ere about 11.

 

With your folks? I presumed.

 

No. Thumbed it doun the M1, chap dropped me off at Covent Garden.

 

Tony found a job, working in the Market there.

 

S'all changed now.

 

I can remember when we use to go o'erthere (he pointed to St Martins in the Fields) get a nice cup o soup an some tea. Stopped all that now.

 

Everywhere?

 

Yep. I go to Victoria now, but even there ya cant go in the front door. Ya av to go round back door, an ringa buzzer. First thing they ask ya is. Av ya git any ID. Then they wanna know, if ya got any money fa food. Na, I tells em. If I ad money fa food I would'ne be ere. 15p for an egg. 20p for a slice of bacon.

 

So what happens if you got no money?

 

Fuck off mostly, sometimes you get a cheese sandwich. Ask em for a blanket an they don't av one. What I'll do tonight. I'll go doun the Strand and get meself some nice cardboard, find a private doorway to fall asleep in.

 

How long you been doing that for?

 

Years.

 

I'm gonna get me a bottle of VP in a minute. Might go to brighton tomorrow.

 

What is VP?

 

27.5 percent. See what I'm tellin ya to do, well, not tellin ya, but ya know. I buy me bottle of VP anna bottle o'coke, pour half me coke out an put the VP inside. They think ya drinkin coke an by the time ya get to Brighton ya drunk as a cunt aren't ya. I don't like this cider. Gonna get a bottle o'VP in a minute.

Ere Biggun, watch me can for a minute, I'm just goin for a piss. Me name's Tony by the way.

 

Peter.

 

Tony got up and went for a piss behind a statue of George Washington, at the front of The National.

He came back.

 

I'll tell ya what Pete.

 

What's that Tony?

 

I'm not goin back there again.

 

No?

 

Nah, they're takin the piss outa me. (He jiggers)

 

Ok Tony, I think I'm gonna go now.

 

Ouh…ya got far to go?

 

No, I'm going in to the gallery.

 

What, in there?

 

Yeah, I go there a lot.

 

Aye, I bin in there once like, when she was alive, God bless er.

 

Must've bin 20 year ago now.

 

Hey, it's been nice meeting youTony.

 

Y'alright fa a cup o'tea like. If ya not, I'll see ya right for one.

 

No. I'm OK Tony.

 

Listen, take it easy man.

 

Yeah, alright Pete. Ya got a ciggi before ya go?

 

Yeah,  course I have.

 

Lila I met on the Portobello road one day in summer. My face turned to the sun while my fingers felt numb.

 

Lila

 

I don't know why I stopped, it provoked a few days of vacuous nothingness, inactivity and lax behaviour. Thinking about why people buy those lousy ‘Change Your Life’ books got me started again. Well, the answer to the question's straight forward, people want to change their lives. Why do they think a book's gonna give them the answer? Why not I suppose; this is getting me nowhere. But I was going to tell you about the Norwegian lady I met; I just had to wait for the right time to tell it.

So she asked me for fire. I assumed by this request that her English wasn't great so I didn't expect a conversation. May be she was using the time to appraise me, sum me up.
            "I think it's nice to smoke, may be once or twice a year." She glanced over without me looking.

            “Well yes, I’m afraid I smoke rather more than that.”

The last time she was in London was 69; she liked the London buses; I like semi-colons; they give you time to think; a brief pause but longer than a comma. Her name was Lila and if she'd owned a Beach Shop she could have called it Lila's Lilo's; or not. I asked her the reason for her visit to London and she told me she'd been following a 70 year old pianist with a psychiatric disorder that made the woman think everybody hated her. I wanted to know what she meant by following. I knew it wasn't bad diction but I didn't ask. Lila was drinking her strong coffee that she didn't like too much and getting a bit of head space from the bi-polar pianist.

 

Warm, but with a cold Scandinavian cut to her voice she said:

"Yes, I think I am leaving Oslo soon, may be Toronto, Canada, I don't know yet. You know Somalia?"

“Somalia?” I said. “Well ere, yes, I know it’s in Africa.”

“Yeah, yeah, Africa. Oh, I tell you, there are too many in my country.”

“Somalians ?”

“Yeah, yeah. You know, I’m not being racist, but their culture, ohhff!! You know they cut up little girls in Somalia. You know that, right? It’s very bad, right? Tragic huh?”

“Well yes, I ahh…….” She kept butting in, trying to back up her point, then apologised when she caught herself interrupting too much.

“I think I understand what you’re saying Lila but you know, I think it’s harder to understand than it is to judge also.”

"Hmm, yes, you are right. I think you know a lot of things. Yes, I think you know about life Peter. Yes, I think it's true." She smiled some more, pointed at the freckles on her forearm, told me what a strong woman she was.

“I am 64 but today I feel like seventy.”

“You look fine to me.” I told her.

“Oh, my hair is all curly and I look like I go round in one those machines, yes.”

“Yes” She patted my arm affectionately.

All the time she was looking at me with these blue eyes, somehow both cold and warm, simultaneously. Lila told me how she sang at home, to friends and family, and how the people said she had gold in her voice. There was something enigmatic and alluring about Lila. Then she hit me with the pitch.

“You know Peter, I want to tell you something. Jesus loves you, you know. Yes, Peter. Jesus loves you. You know, back in Oslo one time, I see a man who was on the street, he had children and I ask him if he’s OK and he say no, no. He say I don’t want this life anymore, I hate this life. You know Peter, I felt so bad for him Peter. This man have children too, you know. Then the Lord, he say to me to help this man and I take him to the post office and I give him $500.”

 

 Lila had done such a good job of endearing herself to me by this point; I could feel myself being roped in for a minute. I could see how some down on their luck saddo like me could’ve been taken in by it all; start to believe that Lila really was an Angel. Putting all the God stuff aside though she was a good and sincere woman, not some religious whacko and I felt truly touched by her. She asked me if I had a lot of money. I said no and she reached in to her purse and put a twenty pound note in my hand.

“Oh, I can’t possibly take this, I mean, you really don’t have to, erhh..” You know how it is, I showed her the usual polite protestations, but she wasn’t going to take the money back. So a little later on I went to have a drink with the money Lila had given me and supped over those cold/warm eyes for a while longer.

 

Disingenuous or Kosher

Without a doubt it's a beautiful smile, when I first caught sight of it I stood up and paid attention. Of course, she gives the same smile to everyone, enough people to cancel out the charm completely and leave me with nothing. Seems like nowadays you've got to see through all the faces and decipher what they're really saying; a modern day cryptology of disingenuous looks and vacant stares. Rigid steel rods, fixing all the eyes to the ground, fixated by unknown paths, arbitrary bearings tuned to the poles of miscellaneous compass needles; latitudes of thought threatened by the whims of caprice and fantasy. Nobodies, telling somebodies to be anybody; IC1 males getting checked in the rain on Charlotte Street. Old Bill sliding on his blue plastic gloves and asking where the jabs are. The burly looking community officer, standing alongside and keeping quiet, either because he's been told not to interfere too much or he just can't think of anything to say. God I hate authority. 

Perfect Elocution

The simplicity of a polite request and the privilege of class; he just asked me for a light with one banana in his hand, perfect elocution and a direct, leading eye. “Hello. Please may I borrow your lighter?" I thought. I can respect that in a man, the directness, the perfect simplicity and all that entails. Gives me a good grounding, something to go by, maybe not all of it good, but enough to make my lips turn up to the corners and a little smoke get in the way.

But I’m Game

Like an insane man’s reality, a cacophony of voices whirls through my ears; only this is a reality deemed sane, given mandate by business, work and money. The lens of my eye zooms in as my head pans out, evoking an Hitchcockian moment of vertiginous terror. Voicemail recordings merge with classical hold music as I begin to while away the minutes and hours in this miasmic state of ethereal abandon.  This hegemony of sound with its irksome and ignorant squeaks of zealous redundancy overcomes me.  Subjugated hands of toil squirm at my side, lubricating the engines of their own demise. My heart begins to palpitate, pumping that sanguine liquid ever faster through my veins, hence darkening the meat of my flesh with blind activity. And yet, I have a retreat.

The Retreat

Dark black silhouettes of fantastical urban invention jar for space with romantic Ferris wheel rides and the jagged wings of art deco eagles. Bastions of civil engineering parade with stature the prowess of their industrial age and rile the stiff, starched collars of an eighteenth century count. On the 14th floor of my four inch tall skyscraper one lone Bauhaus sofa awaits the edifying presence of Le Corbusiers’ arse, ready and waiting to learn from the curves of his buttocks. Variations upon a theme of Venetian architecture meld with low lying Danish huts floating softly upon their Scandinavian mud foundations; tunnels and roads lead to nowhere.

But these words trace a false outline; paint a façade over the sheen of your eyes.

 

At first there are lines, curved and straight; punctuated by black blocks of ink. The abstract interlocutor whispers clichés of coffee and drink; hazel tinged screens of dried up Epicureans baking cakes. Already fallen rain eeks the colour from my page as if a brush dipping it’s sympathy upon a dab of dried up gouache. Those tender arms of flesh asphyxiate my words. Paper siblings of a fresh new page are etched with indecision; they mark the intentions of my own sustenance.

Anomalous human gaits, taps of spoons and seen through stares choreograph a new act of day. The metal legs of my table rattle over old Berlin cobbles as I attempt to make myself comfortable. Air thick with must do’s and muscles tired with aching rest their haunches while another freak slaps his face to the resounding echo of solitude. An arbitrary arrangement of books, letters, words and journals sooth my bones and add sound to the polyphony.

 

Old Panama Cyclo

 

Cyclomotor              with his Panama hat and engine that doesn’t work rides across the Mariannenstraße crossroads and I’m reminded of my friend John Muckle and the book he wrote about cyclomotors. Irish hounds sniff the paths, glancing at me with their doleful eyes like souls once removed. I think perhaps he wallowed too much but I can already see his sneering pride grinning at the bar of King George’s. Rob remarks in his lude and high falutin foppishness, insinuations of a lascivious nature, then on to bestiality and more. Subversions of friendship attack my senses whilst the puerile jibes act as terms of endearment. It’s hard to tell when the joke becomes more; an opening to the truth or my own stupidity.

And I sit here, the girl in front of me’s coffee slowly turning to milk. Turkish gaggles of worked up women tickle their fancies behind me, happy, content and green like a freshly baked baklava. She measures I know not what; with her protractions and right angles to I know not where. The hook nosed gentleman sneers in to his place. Wearing a murky grey great coat and bulldog clips on his trouser legs he could be anyone from academic to maniac. His friend speaks with his fingers, drawing the outlines of little alien men in the air, their eyes are wide and generic and their little stomachs are round and that’s a ruse. The abstract interlocutor reminds me that the loneliest are the strongest, I’m still unsure whether I can carry the burden or not.

Who Killed Bambi?

Opposite this cobbled road the Funk Store has a sign in the window, it reads: ‘Who Killed Bambi?’ Sirens whirr, their harsh tones grate my ears a little more. Buffed stainless steel reflects the orange of one more Indian summer. Embroidered gold and green parasols give me the heat and wallow; waiting for the Maharajah to glide through town with Elephantine pride. Courtesies are exchanged and fees are paid whilst abrasive tongues of Germanic banter jolt my perceptions, until they whisper. Turn my head, extend your journey as my pen writhes and wriggles its spurious line.

 

5’s and S’s

 

Sitting by the Heinrich Platz, all the people are on the other side of the street; I thought it would give me a good vantage point; the hubs are my muse. Two feet cross the road with one ankle that won’t bend, making the foot look heavy; lead weights to the ill timed gait of a long lost fate. Old musicians walk to the next gig with their stings and shades waiting for the sun to peek through the rain again. Huskies growl at the ankles of trouble. 5’s hang from S’s next to O’s with eyes. A Berlin hippy rides his bike with golden leaves and branches strewn across his handle bars the same colour as his silk trouser legs.

 

The Best Years Were Times Spent Alone and I Won’t Forget That

 

I wake up to one quasi-ecclesiastical arch, washed in to the grain of white paper pits and a note daubed in red. It reads ‘The best years were times spent alone and I won’t forget that.’ For a moment my heart sobs until the street kids raise their screens to the start up tones of another day. With a clip a slip and a flip they’re all logged in again and I log off. For a while I’m walking through the antique market that I went to yesterday. Resplendent with World War II memorabilia; German soldier helmets and arbitrary communications, letters, cards and the like, tainted by the Nazi stamp.  Philately collections, numismatic collections, wind up amps playing old Bavarian folk music. Trophies of Africa, breasts of fertility and masks of war. Young Arian idealists with their teeth all crumbling to gold selling dug up pieces of broken pottery from the Weimar republic. The romance replacing a reality I seek to evade.

 

Sate the Baying Beast

 

Looking through the street art murals which I don’t much care for I feel positive the moment I pick up my pen. I remember Rob telling me how he feels he’s keeping the beast at bay when he paints, subduing its rage and sating its appetite for destruction. I fear the appetite of Rob’s ghouls and demons may prove to be too voracious. I can see them slowly, inexorably devouring him. His stained red teeth and open, intelligent face descending to the South. Each slow and heavy swing of the pendulum forcing him down, in to the pit, its mirror lined walls will offer no escape, simply a reflection. I can feel the fear when I’m near him.

Numero Svei

 

So now I’ve got the window seat, booth no.2.

Slow and tender like a horticulturist stroking back to life a dying seed, the way my neighbour strokes his keys makes me think he may have a gentle soul; considered application and nervous brilliance.

“Please, if you may help me one more time, you are so gentle.” He meant kind or helpful but I like the word he used, gentle, and it was true, she did seem really very gentle but not particularly attractive.

 

Leaving

 

It was three o’clock in the morning. Stroking her soft skin for the last time, I got up and made myself a coffee. I was feeling scared and unsure about everything. After I got up I remembered that the clock was set ten minutes ahead of time. I relaxed for a while and took in my surroundings. The air was still and dewy. Outside the overgrown weeds looked strong and fresh; they looked like a picture I had in my head of the jungle. In the sink were the remains of the meal and wine we had devoured the night before. I always enjoyed eating with her. Now I was looking at history. I can’t look back like that I thought. I have to move forward; there’s no going back now. She got up too. Her eyes were still sleepy. I wanted to hug her but thought it would hurt too much. I didn’t want the pain. She came over to me anyway and snuggled her face in to my chest. I could smell the fragrance of her hair.

“Ok baby, I’ve got to go now.”

“Oh no! Where are you going?” She said it like a scared child, she knew it got me.

My throat was beginning to swell with emotion. I looked down at her sweet round thighs once more, kissed her cheek and shut the door.

When I met Rob he was already drunk. Swaying backwards and forwards on his heels and pointing his finger at me like Lord Kitchener. I felt sick at the sight of his sorry drunkenness. The driver told us to hurry up. We threw our luggage in to the baggage compartment and took our seats. It was four o’clock in the morning and Rob was wearing his shades. He sat down opposite me and stretched his legs across the passenger seat. I was glad he sat over there. I leant my head against the window and tried to sleep but couldn’t. I was thinking about her and myself too much.

“Wouldn’t it be great if the plane crashed?” Rob felt a little perky now, still drunk but perky. With his air of perpetual nonchalance he swayed his eyes through the shades and offered me a polo. I took one.

“Want a sweet?” He said to the girl behind us in the queue for the plane. She shook her head disapprovingly and just sighed.

“I think we’re in the wrong queue Peter.”

“Oh well, I said.”

 When we got there they were all laughing and joking. Thinking how cool and charming this guy was with his dishevelled hair and white rimmed Ray-Bans. I though it was sad the way he just couldn’t be himself. Or maybe this was he. I hadn’t worked that out yet.

 

A Man at His Bath

 

I like

Caillebotte

he makes

me

laugh

and think

 

I will paint

a man

drying his body

after a bath

 

I can hear

his joyous

bellow

bouncing

up

and

down

all the

cafes

of

Montemarte

 

Sacre Coeur!

they will shout

this is ridiculous

will be

their

retort

no doubt

 

 

It’s a fine figure

not perfect

but fine

that’s not really

the point

the boots are worn

a

little ragged

newly wet

footprints

stain the floor

a

snapshot

of banality

extrapollated

everyday

 

But this

is no Gentleman

surely

such a

plain

metal

bath

such an

austere

room

such vigour

enervate

the fate

of a

working man’s gait.

As I Leave I Find

My first problem as I leave the gallery is the constant movement; in part due to the fact that I am trying too hard to focus on it. Encapsulate the swing of every hip, the beat of every foot, to paint the changing light and smear my page with the detritus of a single day. An instant that changes so quickly it almost never happens, made manifest in the downtrodden grey shades of a trillion chewing gum puddles.

A nexus of conversations around me lead first to the red cheeks and corpulent belly of farmer house tweed. He's a Slow Food producer from Italy, the deep embedded lines of his work torn hands stained red with the clay caress of Mother Earth. Then the wet coarse gurgle of an old man's chest sends me north to flying cats and projectile claws, intermingled with the nervy giggles of a schoolgirl trip.

Tap tap tap of my minds reflection transcended to audio by the flip of a flop. A flip-flop. Catching a dried summer leaf in flight as it blows through the doorway like a curious cat I sense the passing of souls, exaggerated by the nervous twitching of a knee and one Greater London for the Blind whiskey bottle, half full of pennies.

I glance toward Baguettes on the Menu but I don't think of quality, like the fresh doughy bread I tasted in France one time, rather some dried up piece of pre-baked rot looking sorry for itself and trying to catch some rapport with the wilted little gems and cherry tomatoes before it gets eaten.

As I Leave I Find

 

I thought they were rather bigger than this

In a larger room

With different lighting

Less people milling around

 

Solid

Noon tree trunks

Spin their twines

With a scrape

 

Distant starry halo

Moons deep night

 

Noon country workers

Resting their feet

 

Side of the road boulders

Shaded by leaves

Companions trail

While laces are tied

 

Dusks’ soft serenity

Punting afloat

By the banks of your lake

 

Depths impending night

Appears to have left the boat

 

Residual heat of day

Baked in stone Monastery walls

 

Then I walk away

Through pine trees in the snow.

 

Ballerina Shoes

 

I can see your ankles

They look like Ballerina shoes

Smoking au usual

Not much

Tired

Oh yeah

He’s an intelligent guy isn’t he?

He was a sports writer

Anyways, that’s how he started, I think

Hmm

Well, your saying that like it’s a new revelation

People have always been skeptical

You’re talking about society now

So

Explain more about the meeting

What happened?

Cal

Stop moving

Please

No, talk

Just don’t move

Did you drink lots of coffee today?

No?

Cause I hate it when you catch me off guard

When I’m feeling tired

It makes me feel so inferior

Ah, all wright then

Went to the market

Wanted a lamp for the apartment

Nah

Hhhad some sushi

Walked through the park with Colin

Look how black my eyes are

I haven’t been home yet

Yesterday

Ah it’s a great city

Like New York in the seventies

Nothing

I feel like a schoolboy

Been there two many times Cal

I know

I know that.

I remembered

I rang the number five, maybe six times. All I got was a message in German I couldn’t understand. Akim told me it was an answer machine. Now there are two dumb messages at that number. I don’t know who Yanick is either.

They made everyones portion of pasta and sauce a little smaller, so I could have some. It was good but not enough. Some girl was crying. Her eyes were red and her voice a little wobbly. Her ex had just killed himself. We all ate the pasta together and I drank some cheap red wine that I had just bought from the Plus around the corner. Rob had been up for about 36 hours. He’d done some good painting on the night shift and now he was truly soused. He was trying to be funny, making schoolboy jokes, and generally being insensitive. He felt bad about that the next morning. I could tell but he told me also.

When I began to write the China box noodles were sizzling in the wok behind me. From the looks the cook was giving me I thought she didn’t like me sitting around after I’d eaten my noodles. They tasted good and hot. I helped myself to some more chilli and soy half way down.

I’d ridden my bike for an hour to clear my mind but she was still there. I remembered the curves of her neck and her soft white skin, lightly dappled with freckles. I remembered how she threw back her head to drive the smoke away. The way she pouted her lips was provocative to me. I remembered how she’d spoken of seeing the most beautiful boy in the world on a beach in Cuba and the way I thought her idea of etiquette had made her use the word beautiful. I remembered how she’d looked at me when she used the word.

A buzzer sounded in the street. Some music began to play. I couldn’t see where the speaker was but kept looking at the Chinese lantern above my head. The sound seemed to be coming from there although I knew it wasn’t. A gust of wind blew the lantern to an angle and I could see straight through it. Someone spat in the street. I caught the sound in my left ear. He must have had good lungs because my left ear doesn’t hear too well. Then I saw the busker on the opposite corner of the crossroads. Wearing a Gatsby and bending his knees to every riff he appeared insensibly happy. From where I sat I could see his snidy grin tinged with sincerity. People on the street looked relaxed. There was no trouble. I was glad of that.

When I returned home that night I saw a pair of half naked legs on the sofa, through the window. I thought it was a girl, sewing. My key stuck in the door. It took an age to open. Managing to turn the lock the wall shuddered because I always forget to close the door quietly. Knocking over a few of the empty beer bottles in the lobby, I turned the light on. Rob was sitting on the sofa in his swimming shorts, a half drunk bottle of beer on the table infront of him. He was not awake.

 

The Kiosk

 

There’s a small lever attached to the side of the ashtray. When you push down on it with your thumb a hole opens up and swallows all the ash. Inside, the Kiosk looks cosy. One Mother and her boy serve coffee and hot sandwiches from their hunker of warmth. Large green, wooden flaps open up into a roof with white and yellow bulbs dangling from wires. Neon café signs and steel reflected light give an edge to the grey air. Across the other side of the platz is another bar I’ve been to a lot lately. The chap who serves me there is old and lean. He wears horizontal striped sweatshirts. I gave him a nod when I walked by earlier. It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. The sun has already begun its descent.

The local rag has the intials BZ printed in red. It's leading article is a story about a drug peddler and his client making a deal in front of the chief of police. On the inside cover is a picture of a twenty four year old man wearing a black vest and holding a semi-automatic machine gun across his chest. He wears glasses and looks rather pleased with himself.

The third double spread is all pictures. Danny de Vito, Bruce Willis and Jack Nicholson all stare in awe at the strength of a little disabled kid. A buxom German wench pushes her cleavage forward as she kneels on the wet grass. A half eaten ear dangles from her teeth that she has just picked out from the apple water. You remember the old party game. The top of her torso, just below the shoulders, is gouged deeply with two fresh claw marks, one either side. They bleed heavily.

 

 

The left side profile of my face held her gaze for a second. It was a long second. Within it there was enough time for me to think of the last time I came to this bar, some eight months previous, and the department I came up with for the ‘New Curriculum. Curiosity was its premise.

Doubt makes the words appear to slide off the page already, like frost on a car windscreen in English suburbia as the sun begins to rise. I’m glad to be hearing music again. What with the heads, the flowers and the perspective of movement in here the window looks like a torn page from one of the Sunday Times glossy supplements; some spurious article on the youth of today. Another lone chap at the bar picks up his pen and begins to write something. He annoys me by doing so. Candles at the bar create a chiaroscuro effect on my forearm. My right knee begins to shake in time with the music. Naked Apes, scratch, squint and quiver. Desmond Morris really had a lasting effect on me. Nina Simone makes me want to burst. I lean my left foot on the other stool. Muted trombones and voices speaking eyes hypnotise my throat to the sound of popping bottles. Long leaning light on the post in front of me make the shadows kiss and all the flowers wilt. Bobs of hair resemble freshly harvested bundles of wheat. I can feel the heat. Green Absinthe glows on the bar. Fish shaped spoons rest on the lip, waiting for the sugar to burn. A polyphony of voices mutes the teenage giggle. The ink is pumping and my hands feel warm as the music hits a peak. I turn the page. I think she was a he. It wallows in ecstatic abandon, leveling out before the next crescendo. Oscillating with awareness, the bongos kick in and square the game.

Peter Reiling © 2008