Tuesday, 6 November 2012

Peddle On

Green in the hedgerow. Brambles, berries. Dampness in the air. Arabesque tangles. They reach out, touch me as I peddle on through. Rain sprays from the silvery wheels, the black treads of my tyres. I wobble to miss puddles. With each revolution I lose the print and ink that's stained my thinking. The oxygen clears the brain: the sound of the spray, the tyres spreading the rain. I peddle on. The purpose of my journey recedes. I pass the green with the house on the corner. The house with the tall windows and white frames. An arched door. I can never see this house, the old schoolhouse, without remembering how I first arrived there. The bus parked on the green. Another autumn time. Jimmy. Running on Special Brew and weed. He was a sharp guy. Last year I saw the hearse that carried his coffin when I was upstairs, fiddling with the cuffs of my sleeves. My journey still continuing. It's easy to forget the years. I'm peddling along and it all comes back. Half a life time gone and underneath it all, I'm still much the same. Approach another landmark. A redbrick chapel with grey windows. Smell of the lavender bushes in the parking bay.

6 comments:

  1. "Last year I saw the hearse that carried his coffin when I was upstairs, fiddling with the cuffs of my sleeves."

    This sentence seems to me the troubling centre of this sharp and lovely thing.

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    Replies
    1. Yes, I think so too. It was a bad moment.

      Delete
  2. great story! short, intense, meaningful Half a life time gone and underneath it all, (I'm) still much the same. just a bit wiser perhaps, is what i hope for myself. thank you for this excellent read.

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  3. Thanks for reading. Nice to hear from you.

    ReplyDelete
  4. A pleasure this, Jonathan.

    How very lovely it must once have been to have a clear brain and (inching a bit further out on this once green limb) to have detected oxygen at work somewhere there within it. Can't recall exactly what that might have been like, to be quite honest for once. In any case a created memory is always superior to no memories at all.

    But then "A Clear Day and No Memories" springs contradictorily to mind, to give compromise its due. (And is that not what a civilised soul is meant to be up to, at all times, including the eleventh hour, compromising itself, compromising with the devil, compromising with the opposing party? But did not Keats think Milton was of the devil's party? And too, as might be asked now, Milton Who?)

    To forget the years, to forget the purpose, ah...

    It is difficult to imagine an untroubling hearse moment.

    Though the then POTUS, a good Christian merchandise vendor, having issued the order to send the messenger angels over Hiroshima, is said to have spent an untroubled night. No dreams, no memories.

    And of course a faint ashen shadow on a bridge hardly requires a hearse.

    BTW (as we're on millennial abbreviations)... it's been years since the mild risibility of a bit of word verification gibberish seemed worth relating. But here I have just had: TeenHo 1036. What can this mean? Can the count really have dwindled so? Certainly not, from the evidence captured through a blur of rain, here, downtown, on All Soul's Night. (Talking of hearses.)

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  5. Thank you Tom. As ever, you give me much to ponder. This comment is delightful.

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