Panes and pines

I awoke to the sound of the rain hitting the window, and I welcome the change. It’s been warm, it’s been cold, but it had been dry on both occasions on my recent days off. Now, it is raining and it is pleasing. I think of the rain that used to fall hard on my humdrum town, as someone once important to me sang. But I started the day repeating the words written by their former musical partner about the opposite effect that rain had on them as I went walking in the rain just to get wet on purpose.

Saturday serenity

I awaken, and set myself some goals for my day off and I have managed to do half of them before I’ve even thought about feeding myself. But it is time to have a coffee, a cold brew fermenting overnight with a hazelnuß creamer to take the edge off. Sitting in my chair, legs crossed gently rocking myself to the sounds of the squirrels running up, or maybe down, the tree outside my window, I can’t tell whether the sound is coming towards or away from me to make that distinction as I sip coffee, through a metallic straw. I feel the coffee trickle down my throat and refresh me after a night where I didn’t wake up during the middle of the night due to unpleasant night terrors. The coffee is a little bitter and I circle the straw around the small iceberg in the glass to see if that helps to mix it a wee bit more. It does not, and I sigh, getting up to add some more creamer to it, and return to my chair. I could have tried it while I was in the kitchen, but that would be far too sensible. The coffee is thankfully improved and I press the cold glass against my chest, causing a little chill to my breastbone. My plants are looking a little dry, and it would be unfair to sit here and hydrate myself ahead of my needy, green pets. I fill the spray bottle, and watch as the droplets fall from their leaves, onto the windowsill, some onto the soil. I never know how much to give them, the stickered label on the side of the pot has one raindrop icon. Since I do not arbitrarily measure things in raindrops, I am none the wiser as to this measurement scale and scoosh and spray until I feel like the soil is looking a little damp. The condensation from my coffee glass has collected, and I look down at the floor, coasters unoccupied, their corky purpose of collecting water going unfulfilled. The plants are looking a lot better and I sit back, picking up the glass and sipping from it, and now it is my turn to be refreshed, both from the coffee, and from the cold droplets falling onto my skin. 

Luna

“The moon is very pretty tonight.” I whisper out loud, to no-one but myself, watching my breath go upwards then disappear into the cold spring evening sky.

I have always loved the moon. As a child, I read books about the solar system and space travel and wished that I would one day get to visit the moon. I would grow older and realise that I lived in Scotland and there wasn’t much of a space exploration program available. But a boy could dream!

Benched

The park is cold and the only sound is the rustle of trees and the distant rumble of cars from Great Western Road on the other side of the park.

I’ve taken pictures of the glass palace, and I’ve pressed my feet into the frosted blades of grass, slowly crunching them into a shape of my soles, leaving a temporary mark on the earth.

Walking to the benches beside the herb garden, I take pictures of the trees and bushes. Nearly every tree is empty of leaves yet some of the bushes stubbornly retain their foliage. Several bushes remain green throughout their life, and others age, wither, and die but resurrect themselves the following year. Some of the beautiful red plumage that was on display just weeks previously have turned into crispy brown shells of their former selves, showing to the world the decay and emptiness of existence.

A Saturday with a squirrel

I love to take pictures. I also love when it’s cold because there are very few people that go out meandering without intent. The park is mostly empty with a few solitary souls using the main path as a shortcut route.

I’m always drawn to the other side of the gardens, away from the main pathway running through the park, and it is rarely used since the pathway here that leads down to the river has been closed for the season.

I sit at the bench and watch my breath escape into the afternoon air. I close my eyes, just to focus on the sounds of the park. The few remaining leaves rustling against each other, birds flying, and the far-off city noise. I look down to see a squirrel.

“Hello” I say.

The Fall

The thing about seeing The Fall is that you’re reminded of seeing your uncle. You know, the one that had to move back home after his marriage fell apart. You were never told why, but just that the uncle would be living there again. You’d go round to see grandma and he’d be there, in his ill-fitting, tattered dressing gown, demanding that you put on that computer game. “Which one?” You’d innocently ask.

“The one with the f-fucking egg.”

“Dizzy?”

“Aye, dizzy-fuck!”

You’d sigh, and put the game on.

Adrenaline

“Aluminum, tastes like fear.

Adrenaline, it pulls us near.” – R.E.M., 1996

It was Superbowl Sunday. Of course it was. There must be something in the air those days for me to write. Perhaps it’s because it’s the first Sunday of February and I realise that my resolution of “must write more this year” isn’t exactly coming to fruition and so I get a shot of adrenaline to my fingers and I write what comes to me, my brain going on an HST-inspired Gonzo trip once more.

Riot on an empty street

“How come no-one told me, all throughout history, the loneliest people, were the ones who always spoke the truth?” – Kings of Convenience, 2004

I awake in the apartment on Waterloostrasse. My feet hit the cold wooden floorboards, creaking under my weight as I stand up. A couple of brown beer bottles, empty, are placed neatly on the floor. It is then that I see the keys for a Volkswagen and a couple of door keys. I squint at them before shuffling like a specimen for neanderthal man towards the shower. My toothbrush is found placed inside a bottle of Staropramen. Clearly drunk me considered this to be the boozy equivalent of a flower in a vase. The bathroom is delightfully retrograde. I have to affix the shower head to the wall with a suction cup and hook, all while the ripples of hot water make me feel somewhat human once again as my brain starts to adjust to the world once more.

I’ve spent one full day back in my favourite country and I now have keys for a Volkswagen. Impressive.

May day

“I’ll lose some sales and my boss won’t be happy,
but I can’t stop listening to the sound of two soft voices,
blended in perfection,
from the reels of this record that I’ve found.” – Kings of Convenience, 2001

There are times throughout your life where bands come to prominence and you hang on every lyric, chord, or melody. Sometimes they come in retrospectively as you ‘discover’ them for the first time, long after they actually existed. R.E.M., Belle & Sebastian, The Smiths, as I was growing up… Camera Obscura, Sonic Youth, and Death Cab For Cutie as I was finding out who I was. Sometimes it is hard to say how or when a band came into your life, unless you actively sought them out. Sometimes they fall right into your lap. In my case, quite literally, one did. Seven years ago, this month. (didn’t we do the seven years thing last time? – ed)

Winning a battle, losing the war

“Every day there’s a boy in the mirror asking me…
What are you doing here?
Finding all my previous motives,
growing increasingly unclear.” – Kings of Convenience, 2001.

I sit in a bar in the district of Sternschanze, and order a beer. I people watch while I wait for it to arrive, thanking the waiter when it does and he leaves me in silence. I pull out my journal, tap the back of the pen against the paper and start writing.

Seven years since I first visited this country. It has been said that the cells of your body are meant to be replaced entirely, so that physically you’re a different person from what you were seven years ago. At least in terms of cell structure, that is. I mean, it would be rather strange to have a constant physical change and go from looking like Brad Pitt to Marty Feldman. The only cells that don’t get replaced are the ones in the brain. Pity. As it’s also been seven years since the diagnosis.

I remember the text that I sent to my colleague at that time, as I told her that I was not “mentally attuned” for attending work that day. As it turns out, that day would turn into a week, a fortnight, a month, three and eventually six. Six long months until I was able to fiddle with the dials on my mental radio and tune my brain into a station that resembled Sanity FM. Naturally, the frequency continues to have a little static, but then, imperfections are what make things unique and real. Give me a looped crackle on a vinyl record over a flawless yet soulless mp3 anytime.