mist

a place called klamath. up in the northwest where the redwoods make everything quiet. on a misty day i walked on a grey beach, with white sands and silver water. in the mist was a sweat lodge made entirely with wood, right down to the fixtures. only a row of nails, hammered into the crossbeam were metal; a nod to modernity. i wondered what would hang from those nails, perhaps fish to be smoked. later, in a tiny town of one store, one bar and one diner, i ate breakfast and asked a 12 year old waitress about bears. 'sure' she said. 'hang 'round that river long enough, you're gonna see a whole bunch of stuff.' she was a ninety year old woman trapped in that little girl. i tipped heavily and left, forgetting, and losing forever a favourite hat on the seat by the window of that diner. if you're ever there, tell them it's yours and that you're there to claim it. i don't mind.

age

to furnish my new zealand life with things i went to a house clearance sale. an old man had died, leaving the neighbourhood to rifle through his treasures and junk. i discovered an old valve radio in a terrible state, hidden beneath a pile of fishing rods. i couldn't wait to get the thing home and begin repairs. on a working radio i heard the news. in court that day chaos reigned. an 89 year old man was facing stalking charges for harrassing, (with love letters and unwanted remarks) a 74 year old lady, residing in the same retirement home. proceedings ground to a hault when no one could hear what was going on. the judge ordered a break in proceedings until such time that all parties had been fitted with hearing aids.

smile

somehow i was upgraded. i was leaving india and smiled at the right person at check-in. sitting in first-class ruining the taste of apple juice with a mouthful of free toffee i became aware of a commotion. across the aisle and toward the back of the cabin a young child was kicking and stamping at the floor. somehow a cockroach had survived the sweet smelling kill-all spray. it was one of those big sorts, with yellowish wings that made a clicking sound as it attempted flight. the child was screaming that the bug had bitten her. the rest of us did what crowds always do. we looked at each other knowingly. that's not the kind of bug that bites. we rolled our eyes. true, that bug is ugly, but that kid just wants to make noise. no one got bitten, but still they had to scream. pretty soon the pilot came from the flight deck, he swooped in as if he were the only adult aboard. i don't know what happened to the bug, it must have been murdered. for 10 hours that little kid talked about her bite.

art

.....the end would come when the artists failed to stop their strokes inside the frame. when the poets scribbled beyond the papers of their tiny rooms. the world would not end through an act of colossal destruction, but through an act of endless, uncontrolled creation

high

i lived in the himalayas. meditating with tibetan lamas in ladakh. part of my job was to tidy the temple and maintain stinking oil-burning lamps. even the hindus would come and ask for lamps to be lit for buddha. one day i was blinded after meditation. two hours of sitting to lift my gaze to a vision of margot tenenbaum. personification of sarcasm. the wind chimes were made from soda bottles left by travellers, they screwed with the silence of the place, whilst lizards ate one another beneath the prayer flags. of all the things i've learned in life, it was here that water preservation, good tea and self forgiveness really occurred for the first time. one night before i arrived in the mountains, when back in england i had a dream of a buddha statue with a broken nose, hidden in the shadow of the monastery. six weeks later when i arrived i saw that statue for real, collapsing, forgotten, into an irrigation ditch. jung would call it synchronicity.

fun

back in south carolina the majority of people spend their time fearful. fearful of war and terrorism, fearful of death and disease, fearful of their house foreclosing or even a god who may not go bankrupt but may lose interest. there is very little in the religion of the south that had anything to do with reflection, calm and abiding. the devil stalks the flea markets selling crystal meth, rolling blunts out back between the piles of garbage. a one armed man played guitar, strumming country laments with his naked foot. wonderful dark and inky songs about murder and jesus. they sell rifles, replica weapons and bibles from the same tables. i lived with these people and kept a diary, some of the pages i ate, through fear of them discovering how i felt.

sport

barcelona in the rain. i added to the graffiti of the universe by growing a beard. spain is weird about terrorists. they hurry them through the cities in invisible white vans. i like the buildings of catalunya, the pock marked shrapnel stains of civil war. the spray can kids sulked around underpasses and back alleys where once the jews traded and medical wonders were the reserve of monastic gents, drunk on wine and fried eggs. where history is covered in history and sediments of many generations settle, i am always happiest. the gothic quarter held the smell of nine hundred years of damp. pickpockets and graffiti kids made me smile, smiling as they noticed me watching them. i watched lionel messi at camp nou. it almost made me want to be catholic.