Night Drain
So I close the chat session. It's 6:45am. Shit has it been that long? My bottle of Pastis is almost empty. I pull back the net curtains and see sun rays poking holes in the morning sky. The birds are up but they sound like Moulinex food processors. The contours of Guildford cathedral appear crisp in my mind. Why has that image chosen to pop up at this time? No answer? Ok I'll accept no answer but if I can piss that'll be just as good. In pushing the toilet door open another piece of plaster falls on the carpet. The toilet pan needs cleaning, there are shit stains round the rim. How did they get so high up? Is the flaking turd teaching me that gravity is defiable? No, but the old codger in the room next door may well have been at the poppers again. My piss is golden yellow, Pastis 51, aniseed to fill the need of a night without definition. But god does it make your throat dry, milk is the only solution. "I love you 51, I'd drink you all night long!" Twist this with a French Friday night cocktail of wanton boys and girls with money and egos to spare and you have yourself a square named 'victory'. A public square like the market square only the madmen who cross Victory shout "I seek a shag for tonight" and are not concerned with god, well they don't say that really but that's what they're thinking...maybe. Toilet thoughts rarely make sense but shower thoughts? Well they're a whole different kettle of fish! And a kettle of fish? Well that's a whole different story!
I Flush the chain and head for the landing where the descent begins. There's a guardian to pass before I can soak this parched throat in silk gloss. He's black and white and he owns the window by the stairs. 'Cheech' they call him: "Hi Cheech may I pass?" He looks away, that means 'yes'. Down I go and a paper penetrates the letter hole. I flinch and see it uncoil over the bristles of the doormat. "Woman eats Dog" it says in large bold red type. Interesting but must continue to the kitchen and its cold tiled floor, greasy in parts, cracked in others. The fridge sits like a stuffed bear in the centre. I open its stomach and retrieve my antidote. A thin stream of white gloss trickles over my chin and drips onto the floor. Does a milk stain compete in the same league as an oil patch? There's a frying pan on the stove. A thick layer of the culprit oil coats its surface. It smells exactly like you'd imagine old oil to smell: like dust in rain. I contemplate food...perhaps triggered subliminally by 'woman eats dog'...perhaps not. Nothing up here, nothing down there, all empty. Search results=nil. But the codger upstairs has food. Its stacked high in that cupboard on the other side, the space is unfamiliar territory. If I take something I'll trespass and leave traces. He'll find out. Can I deal with the awkward silence later on? But the milk has set my stomach yearning. I give in and snatch the first thing in sight: a can of beans. Low fat economy, in a white and blue striped tin. Out they flow onto my plate, each one testing my conscience as it falls amongst its fellow beans swimming in orange slime. 2 minutes or 3? I'll go for two and a half; the liberal option is wise at 6:45am. So my beans sit on a revolving stage absorbing 2.5 gigahertz of radio waves and I have 2.5 minutes to see the world.
The neighbour is off to work, keys already inserted in the car door. Opel Vectra, his wife is called; a charming lady with well curved and streamlined sides. A puff of smoke a hum up front, the wheels spin and he's away for another day. Oh what's this? Movement overhead. Is the codger awake already? God no! He is! Must hurry! Beans check: one minute and counting. He's in the toilet, I can make it if I go now! I grab the plate, trash the can, wipe the top and I'm through the door, shit! His cupboard door, reverse and close the treasure chest, go back through the door, no time for Cheech, the landing's in sight. Oh so close! The old codger appears: manky dressing gown, oversized boxer shorts and a horrible grin. Our eyes meet above the plate of steaming beans. "Beans?" he asks, "Beans" I say. There's silence then he's gone.
I Flush the chain and head for the landing where the descent begins. There's a guardian to pass before I can soak this parched throat in silk gloss. He's black and white and he owns the window by the stairs. 'Cheech' they call him: "Hi Cheech may I pass?" He looks away, that means 'yes'. Down I go and a paper penetrates the letter hole. I flinch and see it uncoil over the bristles of the doormat. "Woman eats Dog" it says in large bold red type. Interesting but must continue to the kitchen and its cold tiled floor, greasy in parts, cracked in others. The fridge sits like a stuffed bear in the centre. I open its stomach and retrieve my antidote. A thin stream of white gloss trickles over my chin and drips onto the floor. Does a milk stain compete in the same league as an oil patch? There's a frying pan on the stove. A thick layer of the culprit oil coats its surface. It smells exactly like you'd imagine old oil to smell: like dust in rain. I contemplate food...perhaps triggered subliminally by 'woman eats dog'...perhaps not. Nothing up here, nothing down there, all empty. Search results=nil. But the codger upstairs has food. Its stacked high in that cupboard on the other side, the space is unfamiliar territory. If I take something I'll trespass and leave traces. He'll find out. Can I deal with the awkward silence later on? But the milk has set my stomach yearning. I give in and snatch the first thing in sight: a can of beans. Low fat economy, in a white and blue striped tin. Out they flow onto my plate, each one testing my conscience as it falls amongst its fellow beans swimming in orange slime. 2 minutes or 3? I'll go for two and a half; the liberal option is wise at 6:45am. So my beans sit on a revolving stage absorbing 2.5 gigahertz of radio waves and I have 2.5 minutes to see the world.
The neighbour is off to work, keys already inserted in the car door. Opel Vectra, his wife is called; a charming lady with well curved and streamlined sides. A puff of smoke a hum up front, the wheels spin and he's away for another day. Oh what's this? Movement overhead. Is the codger awake already? God no! He is! Must hurry! Beans check: one minute and counting. He's in the toilet, I can make it if I go now! I grab the plate, trash the can, wipe the top and I'm through the door, shit! His cupboard door, reverse and close the treasure chest, go back through the door, no time for Cheech, the landing's in sight. Oh so close! The old codger appears: manky dressing gown, oversized boxer shorts and a horrible grin. Our eyes meet above the plate of steaming beans. "Beans?" he asks, "Beans" I say. There's silence then he's gone.
posted by A W Eglinton at 5:18 PM
1 Comments:
Your blog is impeccable. I'm just checking around because of this challenge thing. If I could have voted I'd have picked your blog. It has a great poetic and personal tone.
I don't think it's fair to really compare our two blogs as they represent two similar ideas. You're writing your own experience to your own photos, and I'm writing made up experiences to someone else's photos.
From what I've seen here I enjoy both your writing and your photography. I'm also adding a link back to you.
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