When I look at the clock face, it strikes me
that there is not a minute in twenty-four hours
where it is the same day everywhere in the world.
What is more, the twenty-four hours themselves
happen only four times a year, and even that depends
on latitude. But if I were you, I would not worry
about it—unless you are an astronomer, of course.
Four seconds, give or take, make no difference
when you wait two hours to see the Mona Lisa,
just for a moment.
Where I live now, there is only one place where I can find a small flock of house sparrows.
It actually surprises me because, in the town I come from, they were basically everywhere.
I have always liked them with their chirping and constant bustle, and also, I guess, because
one was the hero of my favourite childhood cartoon. And therein lies the rub—at one point
or another, we all commit the sin of pathetic fallacy.
Living in a seaside town, it is nothing strange to run into seagulls fighting
over food scraps in front of a chip shop. Moreover, if you happen to have
a sandwich in hand, you can bet they will try to steal it, often successfully,
when you least expect an attack from above.
Living in a seaside town, at least once in your life you wiped their poo off
your head or some piece of clothing. Their cries are your lullabies at night
and wake you up better than an alarm clock in the morning.
Living in a seaside town, you hate them until you either move somewhere
else, learn to love them, or at least get along.
Living in a seaside town, you know they were here first.
Should I rather enjoy a pleasant slumber while being thoroughly aware of sleeping
or choose painless insomnia with its constant watching and waiting? There are also
heavenly bribes to virtue offered by religion, with its promise of happiness always
expressed in odd numbers. Perhaps if I ever envied someone’s moral high ground,
even if it was nothing but a long-forgotten echo of casual snobbery, I could simply
follow the lead instead of dwelling upon all this froth.
In Dollhouse Land, a world without kitchens, bathrooms, nurseries, or families, there is no place
for Chucky, Brahms, Billy, Hugo, or Slappy. It is true that Ken is allowed, but only conditionally
and not before the vasectomy, and even after that, his every step is watched. In Dollhouse Land,
Barbie, Bratz, and Polly Pocket run the business. They are the ones who turned a beach lounger
into a throne—only no one bothers to shout, ‘The king is dead, long live the king!’ anymore.
Too many words, too few hours of sleep with music imitating the lasting sounds of the street,
or the other way around, and breakfast like the last supper rehearsal, goaded by the mere fact
of my undeniable mortality—all of that made me feel as if I had forgotten someone’s birthday,
when in fact it was the birthday one who sabotaged my every effort at making birthday wishes.
Who would have thought cruelty could be effortless?
I am not good at reading people. Perhaps this is why I focus on language—machine language,
to be precise—and would rather spend a lifetime with Turing than a moment with Shakespeare.
But if you decide to pity me, do not. Remember, you would not have read these words if it were
not for us.
Why can I not be C.C. Baxter, Paul Varjak, or even Harry Burns
(but not Phil Connors—I find Rita annoying)? Where is my turn
for a game of gin rummy and Moon River listened to on the fire
escape? I guess it all boils down to managing one’s expectations
since life is not a romcom; you could hardly call it drama, either.
It is more like a whole slew of footage that did not make the cut.
CCTV footage, I mean. But you know what? At least this time
it is you who holds the scissors.
For Stacey
A sudden rain washed the life out of a tree outside my window and stopped as soon as it started
mocking the rainbow. Separated by thick glass, I thought that even if I had no inclination to spit
from a height into the dirty current in the street, unable to reflect any of the ephemeral colours,
I would go rafting to mourn the will-o’-the-wisp and all my fallen brethren, weakened by a lack
of viands, only to discover that a spoonful of breadcrumbs from a percipient baker can nourish
better than a whole cake.
hidden pilcrow 