Knock Knock

Travel is a tricky mistress. She lobs you on her steel-winged back and soars you over to another world, another rhythm. Then she plonks you back. Back here. In my room. And I start to think - did any of it even happen? Was it a dream? But through the gauze of jet-lag I try to remember... that I saw... I'm sure that I saw...

I saw a pair of rubber gloves on a washing line, pegged together by the middle finger in the prayer position. Praying for what? That eventually they'd be reincarnated into human hands instead of plastic cases for them?

I saw a branch with leaves so perfect and precise they looked like bows tied along a maypole. Only Nature could do it so well.

I saw the mountains put on their light evening shawls of the milkiest mist. And somewhere further along the range, the dry ice machine had been left on, on over-drive, pouring and oozing out between the trees.

I saw the stray dogs sleep away the time and the stray cats glare away the time. 

I saw a farmer stand in a field like a scarecrow, surveying our slow passing train, and at the last moment he waved his straw hand with such vitality it split his canvas face into a grin. 

I saw children swarm like ants out of the hive of their schoolroom to wave with their entire bodies at us.

I saw a piece of tofu get invaded by the twirl of my rice noodles, it strapped itself to the back of my fork like a child clinging to the back of its mother. 

I saw sad little crumpled ghosts of lanterns, grey and thin and smouldered, their wishes outgrown them.

I saw the small ripped corners of Coffeemate sachets get taken by the wind, they blew an absurd plastic confetti at us, a western convenience rubbish celebration in our faces.  

I saw a long leaf hanging by a thread to its mother tree, swinging like a pendulum and keeping perfect time. And then I hear it - one two, one two... one two, one two...

I saw the knock knock pulse of a double fit of lightning, revealing the clouds like an x-ray, a naked sky. 

I felt the wind blow such unpredictable splats at my face, it felt like we were locked in an invisible game of paint ball, and he was winning.

I heard... Or I thought I heard... The growl of a wild bear? No, it was the drone of a motorbike. 

I heard the laughter and garbling of a taxi driver. It sounded like a woman screaming, or crying, or mourning, or warbling, an unimpressionable sound, of colour and warmth and an outpouring of joy. It slapped grins on our faces like they'd been stamped there. 

I heard thick hardy branches rattle against the open windows of the train carriages like the world's longest glockenspiel.

The pulsing beat of

Every street corner

Tuk tuk, tuk tuk

Or the crickets cry

Chirp chirp, chirp chirp

Or the bass of the boat

Chug chug, chug chug

Or the metronome leaf

One two, one two

The heartbeat of a nation 

Soaring on the wind

The translation comes

And finally I get it

What it's saying is

I'm free, I'm free, I'm free...

So I suppose it did happen. The sights live forever in the black of my eyelids. Plus the itchy mosquito bite raging on my leg is as good a reminder as any.

Sam

Where the fuck is this place? Google maps is going mental, me and the blue dot seem to be darting about as fast as superheroes. Pretty pathetic Batman and Robin we'd make. Ok it's settled. Can't be far now. I nearly trip stepping off the curb but manage to rescue it and cross over the road. Silk Street, this is it.

My heart is beating so fast and so loud it seems amazing to me that the people I pass don't hold out their arms ready to catch me. I feel hot and freezing and shivery and like a drum all at the same time. It's like I'm going through the shock of it before it even happens. Which I suppose is good. Should be a walk in the park.

I got a text from him earlier today. "Sam. Can we meet up for a talk later? 6pm. Lakeside. Barbican". I don't know why he bothered asking the question and then giving me instructions. I didn't reply but he knew I'd come. He loves all that mysterious intrigue. And at the same time as thinking this, I wonder why I'm thinking about what he loves when he's about to break up with me.

He's already there, thank god. And even though I know what's coming, nothing can quite prepare me for the sight of the person who once loved me, who I still love, and is about to be severed from my life. Surprised that my spine is still managing to carry my jelly frame in a relatively straight line, I head over to him.

He's positioned himself artistically in front of one of the fountains, feet dangling loose. He's wearing a relaxed cable knit beige jumper for the occasion. A perfect choice. Nothing says break up like "I just needed to be in my comfy clothes today". I have probably dressed a bit too carefully, but I think I look alright. You need to feel you look alright at these times, right?

He's got his book in his lap, and is looking very moved by what he's reading. My guess is that he's been keeping up this subtle solemn expression for at least the last ten minutes anticipating my approach. He must be dying to crack a smile.

Suddenly he looks up sharply and gazes out at the water, no doubt finding some symbolism between himself and the ebbs and flows. He does this angle on purpose cause he knows it shows his perfect solid manly fucking gorgeous jawbone. He must have seen me coming.

Here goes.

"Hi," I say.

He looks up, holds my gaze and manages a weak and emotion-filled "hey..."

You can actually hear the dot dot dots in his voice, I swear to god.

It's difficult to know how to play this, seeing as I know exactly what's going to happen. I text my mate Karen earlier and she was all supportive and useless. She insisted that I have no idea what it could be about, don't presume anything, just go along with an open mind. At least she didn't say he might propose. 

I decide to let him run the game, I'm not gonna give him anything. I sit down next to him and he reaches out and holds me for a long while. Usually I'd just call it a hug, but he actually really is holding me. When he pulls away, he looks into my eyes and if I'm honest it feels incredibly awkward and weird. I feign a 'this is too much' expression to pull away and he nails an 'I understand' face.

"You remember this place?"

That's what he starts with. I take this moment to look around to actually remember where I am. I was so concerned about getting there and what's about to happen that I can't even remember... It's not the Southbank, I know that much, I had to cross the river. Northbank?

"We came here to see a film, years ago, you said it was like going to a bunker it was so deep underground."

I don't have a clue what he's talking about, nor do I remember it. Is he thinking of a previous girlfriend? In any case, he seems to want me to be affected by the symbolism of it despite the fact I have no memory of this apparently emotionally weighted evening. I can't quite think what to do or say so I resolve to look down and let the evening sun flutter through my eyelashes hoping I look graceful and folourn. Or I'd settle for slightly pretty.

I think the gesture gives him the effect that I'm deeply impacted by the memory. He puts his hands on mine and they are so warm, I hate that because for necessity's sake I really want him to keep them there. 

"You're a wonderful woman, I want you to know that. You are sunshine personified. And just cause we've run our course-"

I stop listening. I realise that this is actually how he's gonna do it. He's not gonna be brave enough to say what the hell's going on. He's not gonna own the break up. He's just gonna assume I know. Which of course I do. But he doesn't know that. And this simple act of cowardice tells me more about him than anything I've known in our two years together. And it's at that precise moment that I know who he really is.

A pigeon is hopping dead close behind him so I decide to look away and focus on the bird. The pigeon's almost comically close and I will it to bite his hand or poop on his head (without the good luck) or flap like crazy right in his chiseled face.

He's still talking, really relishing himself. Even when he's breaking up with me, he's still dominating the conversation. It's really all about his anguish. I could be anyone as long as he gets to properly feel all the anguish in the fucking world. 

In between chapters, he stares at me for way too long. It feels very strange and I'm dangerously close to hysterical laughter but I think I'm supposed to look pained. I'm bloody freezing to be honest so pained isn’t too much of a push. He properly knows about my bad blood circulation as well, he's one of these 'wear socks in bed' nazis. Why couldn't he have broken up with me in Nando's? I could murder a spicy rice right now. Oh yeah, look pained.

"You're going to be OK," he says. 

I know mate, I'm already planning my post break-up google: 'nearest nandos'.

"You’re right. I think I will-"

"You will"

"Yes. I think I will-"

"You will"

He's pissing me off now, but I do a self-deprecating smile and really add some gravitas when I say "Thank you."

The wind changes and I get a right splattering in the face from the fountain. There goes my perfect base. If he's gonna break up with me, I thought earlier, at least I can make sure my make up is bloody flawless. As if he's gonna see my blusher sat perfectly and pertly on the apples of my cheeks and change his mind. Pathetic.

"It's time for us to move on Sam," he says. And he's actually getting his stuff together. That was bloody quick, I think, and now he's actually gonna leave me sat here freezing my tits off in god knows where with an over-confident pigeon. But before he actually leaves, his final scene. He stares at me. And stares. And stares. 

A bit of hair drops in his eye and I know it must be really annoying him. It must be well itchy. But he won't push it away, at least not without a gesture of grief or to wipe away a tear. He doesn't want to look vain.

And then he's gone. I see him slide out of the frame of my eyesight. My eyeballs are locked, staring, and he just... disappears from view. I don't watch him walk away although I know he wants me to. I just stare at the fountain blankly, my mouth hanging from the slack strings of my jaw bone. My expression, I know, is something akin to gormless.

Ten minutes later, I find myself back on the odd streets of the deserted City. It's Saturday and everything feels eerie and unreal. I mean when Boots is closed on a Saturday, you know it's an odd place. I have no idea where I'm going or where I am, I haven't even got the energy or sense to get my phone out and have a look. I don't want to see any texts. I don't want to see anything.
           "Excuse me, miss."

I nearly jump out of my skin. A homeless man stands in front of me.

“Excuse me, miss, I'm trying to get into a hostel tonight. I'm homeless and - it's gonna be a cold night and -"

I get my purse out of my bag and see what I have.   

"Thank you, miss, thank you. Do you know - you're the first person who has looked at me all day. Let alone helped me. You're the first person who's even seen me, thank you, thank you so... are you alright miss?"

My face is soaked. Snot, sweat, tears, the lot. It'll always catch you off guard, won't it, heartbreak?

I give him everything in my purse. Amazingly it amounts to thirty three pounds and sixty one pence. 

I offer the man the warmest wobbliest smile I can muster and walk on, completely and utterly aimless. I decide to trust my inner compass and weave my way between the soulless mocking towers hopefully towards home. 

No Nando’s. 

Grace

It's not very long before
They start rolling out the free
Bottled water. "Sparkling or-?"

Still we're here. A standstill,
A brief cloud of momentum
Paused. An onward feeling halted.

We get sporadic updated from
A faceless man who has the grace
To sound sad. No one else.

A man opposite me jokes
To his near-by stranger that soon
"Drinks on me!". How funny.

Meanwhile a person is lying
Dead on the rail tracks beneath us.
A human. A child. Once.

Fishergirl

(For my niece)

A taut line tugs between our hearts,

A fish hook lodged deep in my grey flesh

And when you leave me it snaps.

The lump in my throat balloons into

A full neck brace and the snot is not

Pollen induced. I blink to try and

Keep the waters well within their borders

But the tide is rising, relentless,

Reaching far in-land and bursts its banks.

I can't help

How much I love you.

Us moon babies are born from

The same flower. We see the same,

Talk, fight, laugh the same.

Sometimes you catch my gazing

And face betrays heart. I am guilty.

Caught red-handed, I hear

The click of a torch, I see

The stark bright white orb glaring

And I babble with bubbling fear that

"Yes, Officer, it was me who murdered-"

Whoever. Adoring you, the way I do, feels

Dangerous, a crime, and you

The all-ignorant victim of my love.

All you see is fun, sun, bogies, emojis,

Fountains, mountains, unicorns, newly born

Magic and spells, rock-pools and shells,

Cats and dogs and rabbits and hippogriffs,

Ponies and unicorns and dinosaurs and just a whiff

Of wisdom beyond your years. Of concrete strength.

So off you jump, fishing rod dangling and

Bashing from the straps of your rucksack.

And though this pain is deep and sharp,

I stop struggling, flapping, flailing and splashing

And just float in my ocean of love for you.

Crumbs

I keep collecting crumbs -
They really are the crusts of Love
But hey, they're all I have.
Some of them have been dipped
Green in mould, some really
Put the crumb in breadcrumb,
Some stale and some sink into the
Creases of my brown paper bag,
But I won't get rid of them.
They're all I have.

I'll know the morning when it comes,
The sun breaking through my window
Will whisper
When it's time to scatter them,
Throw them to the high winds and
Feed the birds
Spread the word
Flap the beat of the chant
Pulsing through the sky
Spray the broken atoms of
A Thing-Like-Love
And voodoo-like, it will take
The pins out of my heart.

Woods

I wonder if there's any way out of here.

There’s only two shades of black:

Air black and tree black, you

Can't move more than a metre before

A root uproots you,

Trips you up, smirking and

Sinks back into the soil.

The trees reach far, far

Into the sky, meshed overhead

And twined together, locking

Hands, to mess you up.

To try and make you forget

The sky was ever there.

There’s a patch of sunlight I've been chasing.

I remember that, I was told to

Find the light, and I’ve tried

For however many days -

I figure when I find it,

If I stay ever-so still,

It will beam me out of here

Some powerful alien spotlight.

If I really squint, I can see

The branches spreading thin and sparse

Across the remnants of an indigo sky.

They look like

The fringes and frays of a

Worn out broken black cloth

Sold creased up in the 50p bin

Down the Market on a Saturday.

No, they look more like

Spindly fingers creeping and crawling

Reaching for something in the air

But held back by their age and evil-ness.

Their eyes in their nails,

Glancing down at me with

Sharp and tired disdain.

Perfectly silhouetted.

Will I ever be

Out of the woods?

I've been here a while now,

For however many years.

But when I find it…

That perfect sphere of golden light

When I find it - it will -

Will melt away the dark eyed branches,

The tricksy scheming mirthless roots

It will beam light into me

So so so bright

So so so hot

So even if I never find my way

Out of the woods

At least, at the very end

I'll be warm.

Warmth

I'm having a right lols of a life,
And the novelty isn't wearing off:
That you can be this full of joy
With no one being in love with you.
But I...
I'm in love with everything
Light, sunshine, friends, warmth
So
Much
Laughter
So much comfort
In my own little body
In my peaceful little head
In the smiles I rally around the Southbank
In the complete abandonment to Time,
To the World.
I so unfaltingly trust you.
And with this much hope,
This much space in my head,
What can't I learn?
What can't I do?
What could go wrong?

Guy

There's a burning bubbling in my heart
A deep bonfire deep
And people throw themselves on,
Willingly, smiling, glinting.
They're curling and shining in the flames
Bright plastic wrappers of faces
Morphing and melting and
I can't see who they are anymore.
And who's the dummy?
The Guy pinned at the top?
His face stays put, the flames don't dare
Reach him, they have other meat
To devour. They swim his way,
Nudge each other, remember their orders,
Chuck a knowing glance around, retreat.
God these flames are hungry.
But his face stays put.
Who is he? Why don't I
Recognise him?
I close my eyes, swim down in my veins -
Rivers, tributaries, ox-bow lakes later and
I've made it. My heart.
Juicy and slimy and not baring
Any resemblance to that dim
Place I refer to covered in skin,
The place I hold. Squeeze.
My heart. And He -
He looks me dead in the eye
Thick in the joy of my flames.
His eyes flow into mine,
I can't look away, can't break
The neon glowstick UV fluid between us.
I don't want to.
It hurts, having a fire in your heart.
But he has locked me in, and
I think I'll keep him there.

Froggatt Close

(Written after my mum moved out of the house I grew up in)

I seem to have floated into a lilac room upstairs in 4 Froggatt Close. Not too large, not too small. It’s a room that says “This Is My Personality” in what this girl thinks is a subtle way. A sword over here, quill over there, discarded flower presses, photos of friends arranged meticulously in patterns, pencil scribblings on the wall next to her bed. And yes, lots of lilac. Lilac seemed like a good idea.

I can see a girl sitting on the rooftop out of her bedroom window. She glances sharply round at me, but the distortion of light, shapes and reflection mean she can't see me. Or maybe I'm invisible.

It's cold, she's got a scarf wrapped tightly around her shoulders and her type-writer balanced precariously on her knees. Her bedroom door is tightly closed, locked, though the lock is a flimsy one - hand screwed on one desperate Sunday. Now it looks drunk, or hungover, lopsideldly wobbling and clinging to the door frame like a pissed bouncer still trying to do its job.

But out of the window another world awaits. The sky, the trees, the pure scope of space. And there she writes. Sometimes thoughts, feelings, books, poems, sometimes rubbish.

She is overwhelmingly aware of how unattractive she thinks she is, but there are no mirrors on the rooftop. She is almost out of body, beyond herself, only her mind exists. Here, she can close her eyes and be anyone, think anything. Her head is full to bursting. It is all Lyra and Will, Frodo and Sam, Kestrel and Bo, Jane and Rochester and it is words that gives her meaning. Words that make her cry and throw into chaos any notion that this world holds enough in it for her. And when the thought often - desperately often - occurs of her poor physical self (she is a teenage girl after all), the same conclusion floats in providing some comfort: "I am nothing to look at, but my mind is all sprawling, whizzing fireworks.”

The school day is a distant memory to her now because being alone has power. And when people see her at school, a strong throng of friends deep, getting hyperventilatingly hyper with giggles and fun and frolics and who'd know? Here she is a different she, the same, all one. She dreams of an all-encompassing love that will surely wrap around her tighter even than her scarf is doing now. So strong, so firm and cup-of-tea-comfortingly warm, she will never feel the cold again.

She knew even then that she was not the young people that older people referred to. At school, she carries a miniature leather-bound Romeo and Juliet in the inner pocket of her blazer (closest to her heart), occasionally retreating to the toilet just to re-read a passage. And then back into the chaos, the laughter, the nonsense.

She's shivering, but she doesn't mind. She can hear her mum washing up with the window open in the kitchen downstairs, singing snatches of Tracy Chapman. Usually the same line or two caught on repeat. The wind blows a particularly flamboyant gust at her and time takes on a wave-like undulating quality. She knows this stolen hour can't last; eventually her body will catch up with her stubbornness and goosebumps will prevail. As nature intended.

Until then, it is just... stories. Stories. Stories stories stories. Stories that weave like ribbons of colour, dancing like crazy and when they snap away from the ground they tap inside her head.

I am her. And she is me.

And I am coming back to you.