Passages

[shereads]

"The mistaken exits and entrances of my thirties have moved me several times to some thought of spending the rest of my days wandering aimlessly about the South Seas, like a character out of Conrad, silent and inscrutable. But the necessity for frequent visits to my oculist and dentist has prevented this. You can't be running back and forth from Singapore every few months to get your lenses changed and still retain the proper mood for wandering. Furthermore, my horn-rimmed glasses and Ohio accent betray me, even when I sit on the terrasses of little tropical cafes, wearing a pith helmet, staring straight ahead, and twitching a muscle in my jaw. I found this out when I tried wandering around the West Indies one summer. Instead of being followed by the whispers of men and the glances of women, I was followed by bead salesmen and native women with postcards. Nor did any dark girl, looking at all like Tondelayo in 'White Cargo,' come forward and offer to go to pieces with me. They tried to sell me baskets.

"Nobody from Columbus has ever made a first rate wanderer in the Conradian tradition. Some of them have been fairly good at disappearing for a few days to turn up in Louisville with a bad headache and no recollection of how they got there...

"There was, of course, even for Conrad's Lord Jim, no running away. The cloud of his special discomfiture followed him like a pup, no matter what ships he took or what wildernesses he entered. In the pathways between office and home and home and the houses of settled people there are always, ready to snap at you, the little perils of routine living, but there is no escape in the unplanned tangent, the sudden turn. In Martinique, when the whistle blew for the tourists to get back on the ship, I had a quick, wild, and lovely moment when I decided I wouldn't get back on the ship. I did, though. And I found that somebody had stolen the pants to my dinner jacket."

~ James Thurbur, "My Life and Hard Times"

 

[shereads]

I may not write, but I type like a demon.

If you come across a passage in something you're reading that wants to be shared, please post it here. I'd help you type it if I could, but...

 

[Guest]

I'd help you type it if I could, but...

You should've posted this thread a day earlier.

 

[Songcatcher]

Paul Auster
What interested me most, I said, were stories that defied our expectations about the world, anecdotes that revealed the mysterious and unknowable forces at work in our lives, in our family histories, in our minds and bodies, in our souls. In other words, true stories that sounded like fiction.

"I have never been perfect, but I am real."

We all feel that we are part of the world and yet exiled from it.

Our lives overwhelm us, define us, obliterate the boundaries between ourselves and others.

I learned that I am not alone in my belief that the more we understand of the world, the more elusive and confounding the world becomes.

"I am left without an adequate definition of reality."

If you aren't certain about things, if your mind is still open enough to question what you are seeing, you tend to look at the world with great care, and out of that watchfulness comes the possibility of seeing something that no one elsehas seen before. You have to be willing to admit that you don't have all the answers. If you think you do, you will never have anything important to say.

It is something else, something raw and close to the bone, and whatever skills these authors might lack, most of their stories are unforgettable.

A woman who lives in San Diego, California
I was adopted from an orphanage at the age of eight months. Less than a year later, my adoptive father died suddenly. I was raised by my widowed mother with three older adopted brothers. When you are adopted, there is a natural curiosity to know your birth family. By the time I was married and in my twenties, I decided to start looking.

I had been raised in Iowa, and sure enough, after a two-year search, I located my birth mother in Des Moines. We met and went to dinner. I asked her who my birth father was, and she gave me his name. I asked where he lived, and she said "San Diego," which was where I had been living for the last five years. I had moved to San Diego not knowing a soul - just knowing I wanted to be there.

It ended up that I worked in the building next door to where my father worked. We often ate lunch at the same restaurant. We never told his wife of my existence, as I didn't really want to disrupt his life. He had always been a bit of a gadabout, however, and he always had a girlfriend on the side. He and his last girlfriend were "together" for fifteen-plus years, and she remained the source of my information about him.

Five years ago, my birth mother was dying of cancer in Iowa. Simultaneously, I received a call from my father's paramour that he had died of heart complications. I called my biological mother in the hospital in Iowa and told her of his death. She died that night. I received word that both of their funerals were held on the following Saturday at exactly the same hour - his at 11 A.M. in California and hers at 1 P.M. in Iowa.

 

[Songcatcher]

On the bridge, Toph is making cow sounds at the people walking, because it brings us to tears. He is leaning out his window mooing.

"Mooo."

He has the window all the way down.

"Moooooooo."

The tourists are not hearing, it doesn't seem, because the wind coming over the bridge from the Pacific is wicked and relentless, as it always is, and the tourists, couples and families, all underdressed in T-shirts and shorts, are being abused by the gusts, are barely staying upright.

"Mooooooooooo."

Toph's not even trying to make it sound cowlike. He's just saying the word - it's just a person saying Moo. He does a few where he kind of barks it, angry-like, but in monotone.

"Moo! Moo!"

It's hard to convey why this is funny. Maybe this isn't funny, but we're dying. I can barely see; it's killing us. I try to drive straight, wiping my eyes. Wispy clouds hurtle over us, cotton pulled apart by children. For the last group of tourists, he does a little stutter thing with the mooing.

"I say, I say, I say," he says, "I say, I say, I say" - he pauses for a second, then does a quick "Uuuh," then:

"Mooooooooooooooooo."

The bridge ends, the torn-cotton clouds breaking up immediately, then it's clear, Easter blue, and we're on 101, but just for a second - two exits and then we get off at Alexander, then come back under 101 and up the Headlands drive. As we climb with the road, right away above the Golden Gate, the clouds are suddenly below us, rolling through the bridge, fleece pulled through a harp.

 

[amicus]

Shereads....Passages...

I truly thought I was reading your thoughts at the beginning of Passages and my mind wandered along with the words and dredged up some old memories.

This is not a passage from someone else, so I hope you don't mind or consider it taking the thread in a different direction.

Along with a college girl from Gainesville, Florida, I bought an abandoned sail boat; 36 foot gaff rigged cutter, on the Miami river within hearing distance of the Orange Bowl, where the Miami Dolphins played football. The stadium was close enough that I could hear the crowd noises as I labored rebuilding the boat.

Condensing time and events, the young lady turned green as we lifted over the first Atlantic swell going through Government Cut into the open ocean near Biscayne Bay. She never sailed with me again even though we spent a year and not a small amount of mutual funds outfitting the sailboat.

But coeds were plentiful that spring and I was seldom at a loss for a sailing companion; some better than others.

More condensation...after weathering a two day storm that brought 60 knot winds and waves of 25 feet, surfing down the face of those waves at 10 knots in the boat and feeling the exhileration of the ocean and the elements...

The little four cylinder Atomic Four marine gas engine sputtered and quit as we approached Cat Island in the eastern Bahamas, near San Salvador where Christopher Columbus and his men first set foot in the Americas.

I remember have to tack back and forth against the wind to approach the island. The main Jib sail had been damaged in the storm and so a heavy red colored jib replaced it as we slowly approached the white sandy beach of Cat Island.

Several people came and went on the beach as we slowly made progress towards a place close enough to anchor and use the small fibreglas dingy to paddle ashore.

Only one small black boy, perhaps ten years old was waiting when we finally stepped ashore and pulled the small boat up above the tideline.

"Y'uns wanna see? Follow me...follow me." He said, and we did.

It was Christmas eve. The population of the island was small and all black except the Catholic Priest who was willing to sell a few gallons of gasoline of which we were in great need.

We had a meal at the young boys house, island food, fish and conch and rice and were invited to a Christmas celebration that took place at dusk, with campfires and lanterns as the generator that supplied electricity was turned off at various times.

It was a Christmas pageant such as I had never seen before. The citizens of that small island re enacted their passage from Africa, as slaves, hundreds of years before. There was no stage, just an open air area bordered on one side with wooden benches.

The sails of their stage boat were white sheets held and waved by the makeshift actors as they rose and fell, creating the scene of the ocean passage. The story was told in both broken English and words of a remembered native tongue so far in the past.

There was a christian religious aspect to the performance as the play depicted salvation from a storm at sea, suffering and death and finally arrival at their island home.

~~~~~~~~~~~

There is more, much more, but your words brought back those memories for the first time in many years and I felt compelled to blurt them out. Hope you did not mind.

amicus...

 

[Subo97]

passages to where I am

"Well, we're up shit creek without a paddle" -- Subo 97 on discovering both his left rear and spare tires were flat.

" I put my cigarette on a parking meter and walked on down the road" -- Bob Dylan, Talking World War III Blues.


"She walked into my life
With her cold, evil eyes,
and with the length of her mind,
she darked the sun." --Dillard and Clark


"Able was I, ere I saw Elba."--Napoleon Bonaparte


Subo97: "There are some words that are very hard to rhyme."
Mrs. Subo: "Nobody has ever been able to make a rhyme with
Orange."
Subo 97: "What about 'door hinge'?"
Mrs. Subo: "That doesn't rhyme!"
Subo 97: "It does in the South."


I remember how cold it was that first weekend of February. The plot whre they were laying my father was on an exposed hillside, overlooking the Juniata river and the mountains on the other side of the valley where he loved to hunt, where he taught me how to walk silently in the woods and listen to the mountain. It would be beautiful in the Spring when the green returned and in the fall when the mountains ran red, but on that weekend it was bitter cold and the wind blew up the hill to burrn my cheeks like fire. But I did not cry. When the priest took me out of the classroom and told me he died, I did not cry. When my family sat around awkwardly in the living room for days greeting relatives and friends, I did not cry. Decades later and a thousand miles away, I would cry, but under those gray skies and in that crowd, I held on to my anger and did not cry.


shereads:

 

[shereads]

There was a christian religious aspect to the performance as the play depicted salvation from a storm at sea, suffering and death and finally arrival at their island home.

~~~~~~~~~~~

There is more, much more, but your words brought back those memories for the first time in many years and I felt compelled to blurt them out. Hope you did not mind.

Thank you for the story, smoove a, and for confusing me with Thurber.

 

[shereads]

Re: passages to where I am

I remember how cold it was that first weekend of February. The plot whre they were laying my father was on an exposed hillside, overlooking the Juniata river and the mountains on the other side of the valley where he loved to hunt, where he taught me how to walk silently in the woods and listen to the mountain. It would be beautiful in the Spring when the green returned and in the fall when the mountains ran red, but on that weekend it was bitter cold and the wind blew up the hill to burrn my cheeks like fire. But I did not cry. When the priest took me out of the classroom and told me he died, I did not cry. When my family sat around awkwardly in the living room for days greeting relatives and friends, I did not cry. Decades later and a thousand miles away, I would cry, but under those gray skies and in that crowd, I held on to my anger and did not cry.

Speechless.

 

[Songcatcher]

A curious thing about this period was the conviction which obtained among us that some of our little playmates were definitely bad, i.e. incipient whores or sluts. Some girls already possessed a vile vocabulary pertaining to this mysterious realm. Some would do forbidden things, if given a little gift or a few coppers. There were others, I must add, who were looked upon as angels, nothing less. They were that angelic, in fact, that none of us ever thought of them as owning a crack. These angelic creatures didn't even pee. 'Your teeth look okay again now, Dad,' said Louis, and full love returned; but I was thinking What teeth? It appears that I give nothing away. My upper lip is solidly pendulous, altogether atrophied by twenty-five years of not smiling . . . There is a lushy crush outside the British Airways terminal. Everyone is enlarged, fattened, baggy with impedimenta, with winter coats, padded, air-bubbled, taking up a lot of space, all Kingsleysized, and bumping into one another.

When did Horacio Martinez send me 'James Joyce's Ulysses and Dentistry'? I can't remember. But the innocent reader will be wondering why he sent it. Now, Horacio hails from Argentina, from Buenos Aires. As I type out this fair copy the year is 1999, and I have already publicly celebrated, with Ian McEwan, the centenary of Jorge Luis Borges (just as, next week, I will go to New York to celebrate the centenary of Vladimir Nabokov). 'Horacio Martinez> . . . Am I, perhaps, being drawn into a Borgesian maze, a singularity or circularity? Is Martinez, in fact, the nom de plume of one of Borges's collaborators or literary scions - for instance, his witty workmate Adolfo Bioy-Casares? The answer is no. Horacio Martinez is on the level. And I am on the mailing list of every dentist in the West.

 

[shereads]

This is my favorite paragraph. Of anyone's, ever. I don't know why.

Thurber is describing the effects of middle age on short-story writers, "particularly writers of light pieces running from a thousand to two thousand words." I haven't written any short stories, but if I were going to write a story it would be short.

~ S


"His ears are shut to the ominous rumblings of the dynasties of the world moving toward a cloudier chaos than ever before, but he hears with an acute perception the startling sounds that rabbits make twisting in the bushes along a country road at night and a cold chill comes upon him when the comic supplement of a Sunday newspaper blows unexpectedly out of an areaway and envelopes his knees. He can sleep while the commonwealth crumbles but a strange sound in the pantry at three in the morning will strike terror into his stomach. He is not afraid, or much aware, of the menaces of empire but he keeps looking behind him as he walks along darkening streets out of the fear that he is being softly followed by little men padding along in single file, about a foot and a half high, large-eyed, and whiskered."

 

[NoJo]

Thurber was genius. Although I love his humor, one of my favorite stories of his is Poe-like "The Whippoorwill". He said in an interviewL

"I wrote the Whippoorwill after five eye operations. It came somewhere out a grim fear in the back of my mind. I've never been able to trace it."

 

[cantdog]

Shereads

It is a delight to see you posting again.

 

[shereads]

Thurber was genius. Although I love his humor, one of my favorite stories of his is Poe-like "The Whippoorwill". He said in an interviewL

"I wrote the Whippoorwill after five eye operations. It came somewhere out a grim fear in the back of my mind. I've never been able to trace it."

My favorite is his drawing of a woman ice-skating, with the caption, "Stop me!"

 

[NoJo]

Brilliant.

What about the lady at the party dancing merrily on the table holding a champagne glass, and someone whispers to his neighbor, "That's Mrs Glomstock -- she's terribly unhappy".

 

[Guest]

Incomplete man

I haven't written any short stories, but if I were going to write a story it would be short.

~ S

The very first practical question Mark faced on the day was, 'whether it was worth it to get out of his bed at all.' He'd been fully awake and staring at the red, blinking numbers on his electric bedside clock for some time now. It was even concievable that Mark had been staring at the darn thing all night long, judging by how he was feeling just now. He couldn't tell for sure. The way his body and mind felt was making Mark think of lying in his bed forever and see what it's like to rot to nothingness. He was pretty sure not many people would miss his melting down, of his magic trick.

In fifteen seconds, the crimson numbers on the clock were going to turn into 06:00, and the tyrant called 'time' was going to begin barking an order to 'get on with it!' by beeping. At precisely 05:59:58, Mark's out-streaching right hand turned off the alarm switch on the clock; and sat himself up. He rolled the duvet off him, got up and left the bed without making his bed for he knew the dumpness of a bed was a paradice for bedlice and ticks, otherwise, why all those Italian housewives bothered to sun-dry their futon on their balcony?

In the semi-darkness of the corridor, Mark could smell the feint odor of weed smoke. He guessed that Clare and her girlfriend (one of a few) had been smoking away their night in Clare's room, talking bedroom philosophy. As he passed the front of Clare's beddroom door, Mark could hear the women's whispering voices escaping from the shut door.

'Get us cups of tea, Mark?' he heard Clare plead in her sweetest girl-voice. She must have had heard him shutting his bedroom door.

'Yeah, alright. Give me a minute,' he told her back.

But, before anything else, Mark emptied his blodder in the bathroom, washed his hands, and then went in their small shared kitchen and put the electric kettle on. He had put just enough water to fill three cups, or he had to face the grobal warming and its consequential emvirounmental deserster.

Mark didn't have the time to stare at the kettle waiting for the water to boil. Instead, he put three Tettly's tea bags in three different cups and placed them on a tray. He also took out the glass suger pot and tiny white ceramic milk container that Clare had stolen from the Glosvner House and filled it with full-fat milk. Needless to say, Mark had sniffed at the milk to check if it was off before filling the ceramic with the Glosvner House: London logo on it. He did these ritual, even though he knew how Clare took her tea, he didn't know the likes and dislikes of Clare's girlfriend. Came to think of it, Mark had no idea which of Clare's girlfriends were in there in Clare's room, and most probably, in her bed. He never found it troubling to be polite to his friends' friend.

The kettle hissed and anouced the water was ready. Mark filled the cups, and then took out three tea spoons out of the drawer at the last minuteand placed them on the tray.

With the tray in his hands, Mark went up to Clare's bedroom door and said, 'Open up. My hands are tied.'

There were small noise of someone getting off bed and a few seconds later the door opened inwardly.

'Hi ya,' said Clare. Her bare breasts, under her well-worned yellow bedroom T-shirt, bounced a little. The unmistakabble twin points of her nipples, and her big, girlie black panties designed specially for sleeping in them greeted Mark's eyes. 'Come in,' added Clare with a slight side-way nod of her head.

Mark said, 'Mornin',' to the stranger in Clare's bed as he walked in. He heard Clare shut the door behind him.

The girl smiled faintly and said, 'Hi ya.'

'Fuck, it's stinky in here,' said Mark as he put down the tray of tea on the bedside drawer, and then he parted the curtain and opened the window just slightly as the moning air was too chilly, he felt.

'We've been smoking all night,' explained Clare.

'Yeah, I can smell it,' replied Mark and sat down on a chair by the bed. He made his and Clare's tea, and asked, 'How do you take it?' to the girl on the bed.

'This is Lea,' Clare told Mark as she got back in her bed.

'Just milk, thanks,' said Lea.

Mark handed the tea to the girls, and moment of silence followed as they blew on their tea and sipped their drink.

Mark was discreetly spying on the curve of Lea's breasts under the T-shirt, which belonged to Clare and was a size or two too small for her, Mark had noticed.

Clare said, 'You look like shit, Mark.'

'Fuck off,' replied Mark softly and sipped more tea.

'You need a hair cut and shave,' Clare adviced.

'Yeah, I know.'

'And your dick is hunging out of your boxer shorts,' added Clare.

'Oh, fuck,' Mark repositioned his peek-a-booing flacid penis back into his boxer shorts, 'sorry.' Lea giggled.

'Off to work?' asked Clare even though she knew full well he was off to work.

'The shit cannot be avoided,' said Mark, 'Fucking probation. And the rent's due the next week.' Clare smiled at this for she knew her friend didn't have to go through all thses crap only if he let her take care of things for him.

'Well, we'll do something this weekend, right? Maybe we go driving through the country side? Or, maybe we go clubbing? Or, just get drunk and do loads of drugs? Oh, I don't know . . .' Clare considered the possibilities.

'Eh? I dunno . . .' said Mark. And added, 'A picnick on a beach, if it's not bloody raining?'

'Oh, that's sounds cool,' said Lea over-enthusiastically, and then felt stupid for saying such thing. Who the hell was her to assume she was included in Mark and Clare's weekend planning?, she thought and sank heavier onto the pillow cases, tucking her chin in a little, staring at her hands holding the cup of tea.

Seeing this, Clare kissed Lea lightly on the cheek and said, 'Sounds cool, eh?' Lea smiled, looking up.

The air in the room smelled of girl-sex, now that the smell of weed had gone out of the open window a little. Mark's sinus was working hard registering this, sending electrical signals to his brain in binary-codes which, in turn, was sending the signals back out downwards to his cock.

Mark put his half-empty cup down on the tray and said, 'A picnick, then?' as he stood up, covering the front of his crutch which was waking up, 'if it's not bloody raining. Well . . . I'm off. Gotta get ready.'

'OK, babes. Don't work too hard,' said Clare.

'See ya,' Lea added.

'Yeah. Nice meeting you, Lea.' Mark gave a friendly wink and got out of the room, shutting the door for the privacy behind his back.

Showered, shaved, and his teeth brushed, Mark dressed up in his navy-blue suit. He picked a shiny, red and blue striped necktie and shoved it in the right pocket of his jacket. He never liked wearing his suits, and he absolutely hated putting on his tie. What the fuck was a tie for? Mark often thought. There was no function whatsoever, except as a simbol, as a signifier for the working men, a uniform, and class distinction. Of course, he could always use his tie to hung himself by his neck, Mark reflected and sneered to himself.

Mark collected his usual minimum nesecities from the table by the front door. A set of keys, his wallet, and his passport. He carried his passport - always - because he'd never know when he won the lottery, won on betting horse, football match results, profitting from drug deals, or picking up a suitcase filled with a million quid that fell off the back of a truck by a pure chance, and then he'd be off to the Caribean, drinking cocktail on a sunny beach, or bush-tucking in the Australian outback, or seeking Shangri-la in Tibet, or visiting famous people's houses in the Hollywood, or maybe fucking high-class hookers in Moscow for a tenner a go, or . . .

The out side is misty, cold, and spittle of rain-moisture welcomed Mark's cheeks. The air was clear and light as the dust had settled down for once. Such air, Mark loved to breathes. The chill air filled his lungs and cleared his head. This was alright, he thought. Let's go, then.

He walked through the surberbia, into the town centre and through that to, to the Station, all the time avoiding paddles of water on the ground. Then a black cab sped by him, splashing water onto Mark's trousers as it did so, soaking it big time.

'You fucking cunt!' Mark swore at the cab, and at the driver to be more precise, and both were already disappearing into the distant. 'Fuck!' Mark fumed, and people around him turned their head and decided to take steps away from the irritated man. No one said a thing to him except a homeless man asking repeatedly, 'Spare some change? Spare some change, please? Spare some change?' like a CD on loop. 'Oh, fuck off!' Mark told the homeless man. And went into the Station.

In the Station, Mark entered the WHSmith to shop-lift a Mars Bar, but he cued for ages to buy a tick-tack, a packet of Camel light, a lighter at the counter. He hated the rush-hour cues. He hated any cues. He'd stopped buying any news papers as they always were dipressing, and football was rubbish these days, and by the time he was heading back home, he could pick up any news papers free from a bin.

At the counter, Mark payed for the goods and thought of the young girl who was handing his change back. She looked about sixteen, tired of life already, with not one qualification paper to her name. And Mark thought what her twat looked and smelt like. She didn't look too ugly for those.

Take-away coffee and cheese and onion paste filled Mark's stomach as he stood on the compartment between the carrages. The train was packed full with the comuters, and there was not a single seat more available more Mark's arse. So he stood, sticking his head out of the open door, munching the paste and drinking coffee. He didn't pay for his train ticket anyway. The conductors hardly checked for it during the rush hours. Not worth the effort. At some point in time, all these passengers were going to die in a train derailment through shaeer neglext and irresponsibility. Or, they were going to be blowed up by terrorist bombs. Or, they wouldn't and die of old age, bordum, or by bacterias in their take-away chicken tikka masala, or whatever.

A man came to Mark and he coughed so that Mark would move to let the man in to one of the mobile toilets. An image of a couple fucking in a toilet cubicle of a train. A man was thrusting his manhood in and out of a woman from her behind. She's bent forward at 90 degree, her hands on the toilet sheet, suporting her weight. The man's hands were holding the woman by her waist. Mark was seeing this scene from behind the couple as if his eyes were a TV or movie camera, recording a sordid scene. It was highly probable that Mark had seen such a scene from TV and movies. From Mark's perspective, it was hard to tell if the woman was enjoying as well as the man was obviously enjoying such a vigorous fucking. The sound from the woman's mouth he imagined hearing was not clearly indicative of her sexual arousal. It sounded forced; unconsensual. It sounded like the man was taking liberty of her physical inability to refuse, to escape from his unwanted sexual advance in such a confined place. Mark imagined they were at leaset known to each other, otherwise the woman would have been screaming for help. Or would she? Mark imagined a possibility of man threatenening the woman with kniff or small handgun. More he thought about it, more it was likely such was the case. Mark wanted to see their faces, and there he was, an omnipotent seeing eyes on the other side. The head of woman was tillted forward, her cascading and violently waving hair was covering her face. But Mark could see himself in the possition of the man, giving his all to the poor woman. Mark saw himself, huffing and puffing as he fucked this helpless woman, riding her like he was riding a horse, even though he'd never rode a horse in his life: not even a pony. Mark saw the tan lines on the arse cheeks of the woman behind scrunched up business skirt. Now he felt the heat of late Summer sun, smell of disinfectant, liquid soap, sex, perfume, and sweat. And he saw himself slapping the arse of the woman like she was a horse too, leaving a red hand print upon it. He heard his own huffing and puffing, the wet, squishy noise of two groin mingling thier own excreation, and the pleading, grunting animal noise from the woman's mouth and nose.

Women got raped in these filthy, kingdom of germs, thought Mark. What a bummer! He could think of better places to rape women, Mark chuckled at his own ability to sink to the level par with the devil.

This was how we lived.

The twenty-minutes ride on the train brought Mark into the Paddington Station. There were always prenty of people sitting on the uncomfortably hard metal benches, staring up at the big Train schedule table. As he walk though the crowd, Mark could smell the Whopper from the Burger King. Although what Mark thought of the smell of Whooper was the smell of hot, old and cheap frying oil, he associated the smell with the taste of a juicy Whopper. His mouth watered every time. Everyday. He had to get one on his way back home. Or, maybe a slice of pizza? Or one of those rediculously over-priced french burget with letuce leaves, slice of cucumbers and tomatoes with the filling of his choice? Eck! thought Mark. It was some time ago Clare had brainwashed him to give up junkfood, which was rich coming from his pill-popping friend.

There was no avoiding for buying underground a ticket for the Zone 1 and 2: the tourists hell zone. Then, he waited for his train on the platform, and waited, and waited some more. When a train finally came, Mark was repeatedly told to 'mind the gap.' So he monded the gap and got one the tube.

Mark torrerate hearing any foreign languages on a tube, except American. Especially American acents in suits. But he never did anything because they might be Canadians, and he didn't want to offend Canadians. Besides, the real big, fat Yanks would never ride a tibe. They'd take a black cab, or limusine, or bullet and bomb-proof armared vehicle which drained Middle East oil.

Gettng off at his destination, Mark walked and got on a escarator moving upwards towards heaven. He saw other people descending from up there, and feeling uncomfortable about meeting strangers in their eyes, he stared at small posters on the wall with chewing gums stucked on them, and those penned in funny masturches which had stopped to amuse him long, long time ago. He didn't touch handrest band for fear of not knowing what sort of nastiness was spread upon them by millions of strangers' hands.

The escarator brought Mark on top, then there were some more staires which he climbed two steps at a time. Outside, there always were some blokes selling the Evening Standard or roasted chestnuts, hot dogs and burgers on their grills. Ethnic Albanian men were fighting over their hot dog selling patch like old prostitues in King's Cross. The smarter ones were smuggling cigaretts, drugs, women and children for sale - tax free.

Mark wanted to go to a toilet. He wanted to clean out all those black muck from the tube out of his ears and noitrils. He had no idea what those black stuff was made of. Dead skin cells, most probably, but who's?

At Mark's work, sounds went, 'Bip!' as Mark positioned the hand-held device which read barcodes with red laser beam. The sound kept going, 'Bip!' all day long, and everyday. What was more, there were more than a half a dozen of those hand-held devices at the check out, often the sound went, 'Bip! Bip! Bip! Bip! Bip! Bip!' Mark, two weeks in this job was already hating the sound as well. He feared he'd been hearing the sound in his grave. Mark wondered why his probation officer made him work there, 'Bip!', and he was, with everyday each day that passed, more and more angered, 'Bip!', by the lack of explanation, 'Bip!', as to why he had to comute to, 'Bip!', in order to work as a checkout man. He could well have done this shit-job without the comuting, thought Mark, 'Bip!'. The comuting was taking one hour and half to two hours of his time everyday. Sure he could spend these two hours well, ordinarily, by reading a good book, or studying somethng interested him, or read broadsheets and be aware of what's happening in the world, but those activity would have been interupted in every twenty minutes or so to do a bit of walking from point A to B, or standing and waiting for a transport to alive, and this dicouraged Mark, so instead, he usually satred at the passing scenary from the train, and this in itself wasn't a negative thing per se, but repeating this everyday was, or talking to his mate continuously about nothing particular was. Imagine what Mark could do without the comuting! Imagine what he could accomprish in two extra hours a day! This was doing my head in, thought Mark, 'Bip!'.

'Roy? Is it OK to take a fag break?' Mark asked his imidiate superior. Roy was a short and chubby guy a couple of years Mark's sinior, but his face was still covered in spots, and together with his chubbiness, made him look younger than Mark.

'Erm . . .' Roy checked around him to see how busy the place was, and to see if he could spot his imediate superior Beth. 'Yap, no problem,' he replied.

'Cool. Won't be a sec,' hyperbole Mark and headed to the back door reseved for the emploees.

Out at the back, Mark unwrapps his Camel light, discarded the wrapping on to the ground and lit one up. He took a deep toke, and exhaled. His first cigaret of the day sent tingling dizziness to his head. His back leaning against the wall, he squatted down and looked at the discarded plastic cigaret wrapping. 'Save the emvironment,' clare spoke to him in his head. He picked the translucent plastic wrapper and stuffed it in the right breast pocket on his shirt. His act wasn't particularly difficult to do. In fact any idot could have done it. But speaking like Clare did in Mark's head was.

The sky was clearing up to a little of blue. The clouds were flying past fast, swept away by the high verocity wind in upper stratsphere. It made Mark smile that things can change so quick for better. But then, the things can go either direction - and this made Mark more thoughtful than usual.

A truck was backing in on the alley, making a different 'Beep! Beep! Beep!' noise from that of barcode reader, and Mark stood up. It backed up, stopped, and its engine was killed. The door to the cab opened and tall, stocky man got out of it. He walked up to Mark briskly and asked if he was at the right address. It was, and the paperwork the driver showed to Mark was addressed to his boss, Mr. O'shea. It read: delivery of five hundred kilos of A- grade bioindigradable neucular fissor waste - non-returnable.

'Yeah, the storeage room is in there,' said Mark, killing his cigarlet, then he added, 'the second door on your right. It's not usually locked so . . .'

'Aye, right, man. So, ah just put the boxes in there, eh? Right.' The delivery man went and was opening the back of the truck as Mark got back inside. He wasn't getting paid to help the man.

 

[shereads]

Re: Shereads

It is a delight to see you posting again.

Thank you. Where have you been?

 

[shereads]

Re: Incomplete man

This was how we lived.

 

[cantdog]

shereads:Where...?

I simply went to Massachusetts over the weekend. I stay at the apartment of some close friends; I visit them often, since I treasure them. I didn't get that opportunity when they were in Chicago.

Did you notice the mourning thread when nobody saw your golden posts?

cantdog

(hmm. Golden posts. Is that a double entendre?)

 

[sweetnpetite]

Hobbits are an unobtrusive but very ancient people, more numerous formerly then they are today; for they love peace and quiet and good tilled earth: a well-ordered and well farmed countryside was their favorite haunt. They do not and did not understand or like machines more complicated than a forge-bellows, a water-mill, or a hand-loom, though they were skillful with tools. Even in ancient days they were, as a rule, shy of 'the Big Folk', as they call us, and now they avoid us with dismay and are becoming hard to find. They are quick of hearing and sharp-eyed, and though they are inclined to be fat and do not hurry unnecessarily, they are nonetheless nimble and deft in their movements. They possessed from the first the art of disappearing swiftly and silently, when large folk whom they do not wish to meet come blundering by; and this art they have developed until to Men it may seem magical. But Hobbits have never, in fact, studied magic of any kind, and their elusiveness is due solely to a professional skill that heredity and practice, and a close friendship with the earth, have rendered inimitable by bigger and clumsier races.

For they are a little people, smaller than Dwarves: less stout and stocky, that is, even when they are not actually much shorter. Their height is variable, ranging between two and four feet of our measure. They seldom now reach three feet; but they have dwindled, they say, and in ancient days they were taller. According to the Red Book, Bandobras Took (Bullroarer), son of Isengrim the Second, was four foot five and able to ride a horse. He was surpassed in all Hobbit records only by two famous charactures of old; but that curious matter is dealt with in this book.

As for the hobbits of the Shire, with whom these tales are conserned, in the days of their peace and prosperity they were a merry folk. They dressed in bright colours, being notably fond of yellow and green; but they seldom wore shoes, since their feet had tough leathery soles and were clad in a thick curling hair, much like the hair on their heads, which was commonly brown. Thus, the only craft little practised amoung them was shoe-making; but they had long and skillful fingers and could make many other useful and comely things. Their faces were as a rule good-natured rather than beautiful, broad, bright-eyed, red-cheeked, with mouths apt to laughter, and to eating and drinking. And laugh they did, and eat, and drink, often and heartily, being fond of simple jests at all times, and six meals a day (when they could get them). They were hospitable and delighted in parties, and in presents, which they gave away freely and eagerly accepted.

It is plain indeed that in spite of later estrangement Hobbits are relatives of ours: far nearer to us than Elves, or even than Dwarves. Of old they spoke the laguages of Men, after their own fashion, and liked and disliked much the same things as Men did. But what exactly our relationship is can no longer be discovered. The beginning of Hobbits lies far back in the Elder Days that are now lost and forgotten. Only the Elves still preserve any records of that vanished time, and their traditions are concerned almost entirely with their own history, in which Men appear seldom and Hobbits are not mentioned at all. Yet it is clear that Hobbits had, in fact, lived quietly in Middle-earth for many long years before other folk became even aware of them. And the world being after all full of strange creatures beyond count, these little people seemed of very little importance. But in the days of Bilbo, and of Frodo his heir, they suddenly became, by no wish of their own, both important and renowned, and troubled the counsels of the Wise and the Great.

 

[amicus]

Nice choice...I recall that passage and good old Bilbo Baggins.

amicus...

 

[sweetnpetite]

Nice choice...I recall that passage and good old Bilbo Baggins.

amicus...

Oh god! Are we becoming friends again?!

 

[shereads]

Fuck you, Dupree McCall!

~ Pat Conroy, "Beach Music"