Monday, 9 November 2009

GARISH

I woke up thinking about GARISH this word, GARISH

I was writing poetry in my dreams and I had flown to New York, by mistake

I forgot I wasn't quite finished with the bar.

There was a man on the plane who had fallen slightly in love with me. He'd sneaked a look at my passport as we went through the metal gates and had written, on the patch on his arm, Contact In Case of Emergency – Miss Jane C Flett. I liked the touch with the initial.


Once I got there and walking around I was giddy. They were laying new foundations for the start of another world of skyscrapers. I could see long gashes riddled deep into the earth.

They followed the North-South avenues. The city was cleaved apart and expanding quietly. I watched it as if from a helicopter, the angles tilting.


I had forgotten how nice the names of streets were. “Saint Michael of Love Corner”. “The Abacus”. All I could think about was how I would write a poem around the word

GARISH

The billboards were so bright. I couldn't get enough of all that text. They were screaming and imploring from either side of the road. I was looking for a toilet I knew I could find in a basement. I was going to take my mother to the Chelsea Hotel. We would drink Manhattans (I could already taste them in my mouth). Probably she would meet me there.


I realised I was supposed to be at work on Thursday. I could fly back, or I could just run away from all my responsibility. It came to me, in a dream, that I didn't need to be in Edinburgh after all. It was cheating, in some way, to not have told anyone my plans, but I hadn't known them until I arrived.

I was very happy to be free of responsibility. In the third page of my moleskin notebook I wrote

GARISH

and I waited for the rest of the words to come.