saturday's child is...
Tightened my mental cheesewire and stepped from the gush of high temp water, shutting off all valves as I did so, and dry. Rinse lather repeat. Again. In my main chamber, swathed in plastic, leather and fluff from subtropical plants. Coffee, more dependency on tropical climates which I've never seen. And a banana, the clincher of it all.
Below the Window Which Must Be Cleansed runs a neverending stream of fossil fuel based transports, I'm driven to consider a cineflick recently seen of love and crashes, and the bizarre voice call that I received not an hour ago from a woman I've never met, who lives several thousand miles away, has several children and several sidearms. She related to me, in her own peculiar way, a relevant anecdote, which involved a side by side car race between her and her sister, at 112 kmph on a busy motorway, where the trick was to remove as much of their clothes as possible while staying alive. I was impressed. To say the least.
I exit the building, pausing to block out the wan winter sun, the icy breeze bringing a fine glow to my cheeks as I climb St. Augustine St. (he's not there much) pass the 'There is Hope' building of the Christian hippy bumper sticker brigade. They never explain why hope is needed in the first place, do they? Why not say 'There is Confidence?'. And why do they all look like deranged servants of the state? Oh for a padlock.
Round the corner, passed the dead eyed opticians, the disposable eye implant industry has taken it's toll. Outside an old bank, a queue patiently waits for a spewing of I.O.U.'s, not even noticing the unicycle shackled cruelly to parking meter outside a licenced asylum on a Street of Altitude, where the technocatholic Priest on Call resides. Rogue Priest, where are ye?
Prams.Cots.Buggies.Deo.Optimo.Maximo.Sub.Invoc.S.Audoeni, Accidents are our speciality. Are we not hens? Springs to mind De Mexicana's phone calls , muttering about brightly coloured tricycles and the how authorities are forcing the red light issues. We discuss the forthcoming funeral of an inflatable gorilla. Unicycles, tricycles, I idiotically see a kaleidascopamanical pattern or several.
Traversing by the medieval Christian Architecture, down where no tavern serves me for obvious reasons, I'm beset upon by a diet-something can wielding youth with a small forehead and dull eyes. I immediately notice the mess of the of stone under my feet, a Corporation Calamity.
'Would yer givis a cupla quid, I'm aftur walken from the Barn and I'm gowanta Tallaght!' 'You're lost' 'Look, I have to get a bus to Killester, gimme de money, roigh?' 'You're very lost, and I have no money' 'I'll bury this fuckin' can in yer stomach, and I fuckin would do it too!'
I try to walk past;
'You fucking laughin at me behind them shades, I'll fucking wipe it offa yer face!'
From the other side of the road; 'I'll kill ye, de ye hear?'
I consider Swift's opinions on Dublin (sure didn't he only live round the corner), and wonder if the very ability to make that consideration make me an elitist. If it doesn't, what does it make me?
I lapse into God for a caffeine refuel, and a calming of the nerves, and perusal of fine publications. Still bemused by my proposed imminent death of course. As usual.
Later, afterwards, (another story, and it's too soon to tell) slouching along the Dame of the afternoon, cold and sharp, a neat young dark skinned young man catches my eye deliberately, expectantly rubbing his left wrist as if to gesticulate his urgent need to know the time. I pulled my my sleeve, but he shook his head franticly saying 'No, no, no, can you tell me, are you Finnish?' He spoke with an educated South of England accent.
'Eh no...' I started laughing.
Ah, christians and crustaceans sure where would you be without 'em, ha?
Dave Walsh (Copyright 1997)
d a e v + b l a t h e r + p e a r l y g a t e s + k a v a n a g h + h o m e
© 2004 Dave Walsh & Barry Kavanagh