While I linger on the dwarf wall
at the corner of Union Street and Back Wynd,
leaning against a column with an Ionic capital,
I can’t help but detest the posthumous fame
of the man who wrote a book of short verses
with ponderous sentences full of yestermorrow
aspirations that I’m about to compose.
When does a tourist become a burgher,
and for a pedantic, yet unassuming gentleman
like myself, would it be an insurmountable transition?
After all, when I walk down Back Wynd,
no one can guess one way or the other,
and two decades in Granite City have instilled in me
a certain taste for grey, whether it be walls
or headstones.
Why do New York, Paris, or Tokyo
sound so much better than Aberdeen?
Maybe because they are easier to pronounce
since they have two syllables
as opposed to three in the latter.
Or perhaps I’m just an insecure snob straight from the boonies
who can’t appreciate the cosiness of Granite City.
But I actually like the greyness of granite—it’s soothing—so it can’t be that.
And Aberdeen is still quite big compared to Stonehaven,
let alone Cookney.
Then what is so special about the first three?
First of all, they are not places—they’re ideas,
each with its own altar and apostles,
not to mention extensive iconography.
The power of large numbers could also play a role here.
After all, there are just way more opportunities over there.
You can’t argue with that.
And there is also a desire to belong
that is inherently at odds with that selfish individualism of ours.
What’s simpler than convincing ourselves
that, in such a magical place, we will be part of something bigger
while still minding our own business?
hidden pilcrow 