Saturday, Also*

The musician - he saunters onstage. No, not saunters. He shimmies onstage.

Wearing wraparound shades in a darkened room, without any irony. The way only an accomplished jazz musician can.

He caresses his instrument with curiosity. Examines it. Anticipation hangs, no, it clogs up, the air. Silence, except his band playing a backing tune.

A gust, not gust, a cascade, of notes.

I see quavers and demi-semiquavers. I see New Orleans and sticky, exotic places.

I hear his life and his humour. I smile at his very candour.

Words fall by the wayside.

Saturday

The swirl of the coffee I hold in my hand exists because of the motion of my hand. My being exists also because of motion. This thought makes me feel very little, and I despair the similarities between my existence and of the foam atop my latte.

Will my life be more than the wistful dancing of gentle foam about the wide, cold ceramic of a cup? If one person believes so, then it is so.

Let it be so.

Tuesday

Imbalance defined:

When I am alone, at peace with myself, I am at equilibrium. Nothing fazes me, nor does idle talk touch me.

Then, once in a while, I come across a person; encounter an event, which causes me to lose my centre of gravity.

Like humpty-dumpty up on the wall, I fear I may topple over and be left in pieces.

Sunday

The physicality of you causes me to lose a little of my ability to see the parallel lives of strangers.

Saturday*

We stood on the Meridian Line, you and I.

Our universes collided at GMT +0.00 and for a brief moment I saw Greenwich through your eyes.

We stood still in that very same moment. Reset our internal clocks, then, a quick breath, and life began again.

Monday

In conversation, I chanced upon a word I had never realised was in my arsenal.

“Don’t sully my good name,” I said. Then, continued: “Ooh, ‘sully’, good word.”

Thereby detracting from the quality of debate.

Sunday

I read a phrase that began with, “and my soul abdicated...”

This prompted a bout of thoughtfulness.

Oftentimes I have suspected the same of myself, or of others. A sense that when your very essence has deserted you, your physical self navigates and survives, but there is a listlessness, a painful longing for something else, “a nostalgia that doesn't even belong to me”.

This from the book of disquiet.

Friday

An observation: Alka-Seltzer, despite its chalky texture, saltish taste, works incredibly well to cure a hangover.

Monday

There is a man who makes a living out of wrapping presents for other people. He speaks with a slight lisp, tells me the boxes he has to work with are either too big or too small.

He deliberates over the colour of the ribbon, then chooses blue to match the ivory wrapping paper.

I tell him this makes the gift look like Tiffany's, but in reverse.

He looks me square in the eyes, and without any humour, carries on deftly folding the ribbon to create this marvelous ripple effect.

Sunday

I found myself walking on the double yellow lines on the road today because my shoes were exactly the same shade.

I hadn't noticed, engrossed in this perfectly coincidental and momentarily joyous ocassion. A frivolous observation that nevertheless afforded me much satisfaction.

On the tube on a Sunday, everyone is subdued.

A silent dread builds up, expands from my fingertips upwards and outwards towards the universe.

The man opposite glances from side to side. I imagine a whole backstory for him - a wife that left, a child that died. It is almost always a tragedy.

Somehow that makes me feel better, and I shake my head to dispel the thought, although schadenfreude is only human.