So, cheese. Cheddar I find is too sharp for breakfast and does not play nicely with the other, softer flavours. It’s a bully of a cheese and now ubiquitous in UK supermarkets. But could that be about to change? Stay tuned for more scintillating updates on cheese.
Is this the middle way, then, bleary eyes, and a hangover that won’t quit? I search for something in your eyes that might equate to sparkling passion but all I find is a direct debit chit and a parking receipt to a National Trust car park. I wonder who I am – am I a John Raymond Baxbury stumbling to a spiritual death, a Chaucerian character caught in some animal facsimile, a greying fox hunting around bin bags and slipping on bin juice on a Sunday morning, my head hitting the wall with the death dull thump of a rotten apple? ‘Life’s what you make it,’ goes the song. But the middle way has its onerous burdens beyond the pop song.
There’s that fearlessness, and it is to do with the invention on the fly, the trammelled ways have not yet been put in place. It can be gauche or breathtaking in equal measure and it is art’s taking your first unaided steps, the tottering around. Is it because it is unbounded by expectations: I think so. There’s a freedom of limb, of mind, of voice that rarely returns. After this the world of people wanting something like this, or something like that, and you can’t catch this quicksilver again. It’s like bottling magic, impossible, that swagger that comes from looking at the task with the calm eyes of
But then they take it away
And it will never return?
And I ask myself the same question all the time, that is, do I have the Will to Effect this Change or is it an oblique and faded strategy that bears no meaning on anything real and achievable.
Good the bread and the facile wine and
That choice at least is made
Sunny day, a cloudless sky. I amble from street to street. What kind of bliss is this, an end to the time to come and a compression (and then expansion) into the present moment of existence. A stillness that comes with the beating sun that can’t exist in the rain, the damp, the frost, the mildewed broken walls of a crumbling history. I’m crumbling too (I can feel it) and the one thing about Time is that it only moves forward, forever and ever, Amen: May your Lord be your Witness.
And still: and still.
If anyone drank that much water they’d die.
My cab driver from Lanham to Dulles airport is from Ethiopia and drives on this hot June day with all the windows down at over the speed limit, which feels oddly liberating after the solid week of air con, warm, dry air whipping into my face and hair, this cab scuffed and torn, the transmission going, the brake barely working. “I quit soon,” he says, and I can see that Uber and Lyft have destroyed this idea of making a living. Still the air whistles into the cab and the meter is whirring onwards until the total equates to exactly all the cash I have left in my wallet, a fitting metaphor and then it’s just me with my luggage on the giant on-ramp that is Dulles’ Kiss and Ride Departures drop zone, and there’s nowhere to sit outside (there very rarely is) almost as if people are afraid of merging, liminal zone to liminal zone is over, here, everywhere, unless the market demands it.
Here I am, in the USA. I’m sat in the hotel lobby of the Courtyard Marriott, Landover, MA. The lobby doubles as The Bistro, which is the one-location all purpose breakfast lunch and dinner locale. It’s the bar. The Bistro is important. I am sat drinking a pomegranate Izze and waiting overly long for a meal, reading a book on “Change” by the ASTD. This is what was once known as the American Society of Training Directors. The book is full colour. The drink is red. The food is late. The air-con is cranked so high that I have had to put on a scarf. A man is clearing his throat as he eats and he sounds like a goat, a small, old goat. Here I am.