a 3d misconception of life
sunshine and Aretha Franklin. must be Friday. a sanctuary. a day.
i wonder about the long-haired hitch-hiker at the side of the road, resting his thumbs upon the biggest blue backpack i have ever seen. he wants to be free of this small Scottish seaside town. what makes him happy?
yellow jackets terrorise the kids. ganging up, in swarms of thirty-three to three. they want their sugar lips and stickiness.
Siamese twins stand, holding hands, on an island in the slum and slump themselves down. dual-despondence. real or illusion?
a grey-haired old lady serves hot soup from the street corner. her dirty fingernails in filthy and frayed finger-less mitts do not repulse the starving and the cold.
meanwhile, a young-girl pirouettes on blades in an ice arena nearby. the spray of cold ice rains down upon the young-boy watching in awe of her breasts and the arc of her back. wake up.
Rod Stewart tells Maggie to wake up. i have indigestion.
a young Asian boy on a red bike stops to rescue a red kite, caught in a tree. to set it free. ’tis all he wants.
the sign says ‘get in lane, Lois’. i do my best, but my patience is thread-bare. this is not real.
i can taste paper. eh?
smoker, or vaper? popcorn lung anyone? ‘you can’t do that here, mate’ says the driver. ‘how no?’ replies the man.
‘how no?’ – what the fuck does that even mean?
and a-round-a-bout we go.
green trees spark a thirst for green tea.
free parking. and yes… it’s true…
somewhere, a dog is barking…
white sky. why? windscreen and wounded fly.
for sale. my reflection, pale. the image should fetch $7. you wait and see.
Chinese banquet or dance with a prophet? don’t decide now. you get a free 14-day trial. no credit card details required.
and it is pretty here. in this hand-stitched field of daisies. this is the prettiest blanket.
discovery and shadows, blind. “taxi to Golf City?” no thank you.
a great white shark for the amusement park. her hunger and crescent-shaped tail prevail. she will cut you in two as soon as look at you.
weightless or weight loss. trim the fat.
scrambled brain from Scrabble game. i see Little Miss Muffet has a new friend.
tuning fork or fork in the road. left or right? flat or sharp?
colourful flumes dip and curl from a great height into the cold grey sea, the same sea that many have written about before me.
weak bridge. is it really weak or is it just tired, like me. my week is tiring.
ballet dancers spin in the brickyard and children paint green hearts on the gable end. a smile can disable, disarm. still, the satellite receivers twitch and turn.
i see a rose tattoo on an ample breast. “enough kindness to feed the world” she says.
a mini market pops up in the Land of Churches, whose spires aspire to greater things as the Garden of Eden swings, despite the rust and much mistrust. do you want or need what i am selling? either way, don’t sell your soul or sell out.
scaffold and cemetery flank my path. hope on one side and faith on the other.
i follow the white arrows through the Parish and take the ladder to the sky.
i watch the blue whale in the biggest blue polyester shell suit take to running and the myocardial risk of running a-ground. from bulging seams it seems like this one takes too kindly to the generous offer of mini-marts and TV ads of fizzy sodas at 99c a can. aspartame-based sugar-coated toxin. you in? you want one? maybe a pack of six?
sugar beats, sugar treats, sugar kiss, sugar kill.
and sugar will. wait and see.
there is a new Academy for new minds. am i too optimistic? can we farm a change?
the falcons hide. nowhere to be seen, despite the signs.
slabbing… this way (the arrow points to the left). is there a right way? i guess there is. what of this?
pressing on, i zip through the fields of Beautiful Fife.
i am now east of the wemyss. a town where the wheelie-bins talk. they talk about a revolution and their revolt for our failed devolution, our desperate attempt at evolution. they gather on the pavements, in their cabals and cliques. they are gossiping, chattering and clap-trapping. they are full of shit.
a man struggles with an umbrella by the side of the road but the traffic is under control. the X-men are not in service but the roses are… they climb and clamor, pretty and pink and narcissistic.
a shed with a sea view, as mythical creatures guard the entrance. mysterious.
the sky is a queer dark shade of white, i spot wild garlic growing in the hedge and my mind turns to Erik Weihenmayer; the blind man who climbed Mt Everest.
do i feel inspired or like an abject failure. i am so tired i could barely climb the thirty-nine steps that John speaks of.
what can i say? my week leaves me weak. but it is Friday. a green light.
a green light shines in the hanging garden of this Town of Gallows. a space where people scurry, with furrowed brows they flurry; their dreams pruned and pinned upon the Great British Pound and price of this Lotto life. scratch their cards to scratch their itch. enough rope to hang themselves.
i look across the sea to Rossyln.
i see the bridges. a third now across the Forth. build or burn?
it’s your turn. my mind wonders. my mind wanders.
“tuck in” says the fat monk, or Jolly Friar. jolly fryer. take your cupcakes and deep-fried pies, your nutritional myths and sugar-coated lies. stick them in the lard. drip feed the dripping. your diabetes crippling? not yet. but it will. quick! take a diet pill.
take a look. in the mirror.
breeze blocks of opportunity? cheap but offer no impunity.
i disappear beneath the bridge
and sunbathe upon the rail tracks.
(c) Kat McDonald 2016
– ramblings borne of the delirium & frustrations of trying to make the world a better place.