Sunday, 7 April 2013

7. Time travel

We waited out the darkness and today our reward for loyalty to the air is a trickle of hot dry sunbeam paw prints across the back of my neck, so I purr and I wriggle and adjust to the fur.

Belle and Sebastian on the headphones because nothing is so loud as music when there's no air between it and you: snare drum / ear drum, it's all the same.

Nothing in my skin crackles so much as the thought of legs that run like propeller wheels, like church clappers, like the hands of a clock set to accelerate, trying to count up to tricking the system.

My philosophy teacher wore a pocket watch and taught us how to build time machines, he said all we need is to get the big stick rolling until it reaches the speed of light. But better not, better not he said,

because if we're learned anything from Hollywood's henchmen
it's that the past is a gnarly hillock and you're bound to get tangled, you're bound to fuck it up.

More coffee please, coffee ratatating like a windup metal monkey with his proud red drum.

This year we will sit in the park with wicker whimsy, you'll pour me prosecco and my heart will be the wet red strawberry in the crook of the glass, bubbles swarming and shivering all over its skin.

Wouldn't you like to get away? they sang, and all the Saturdays of solitude said yes yes yes run.

Well, you can run all you like, but eventually the doors will all close, eventually the sun will emerge, eventually it all comes back to kicking a balloon in a circle, being told to keep it up,

realising you could spend all day staining your knees on the green gold grass, realising the balloon could go out with a pop or a long slow sigh, and neither one will destroy you.

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