He waited for his train on the platform. It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten this particular train ride, nor would it be the last. He was familiar with gravel underfoot. The two yellow lines dancing too and froe as they always did. There were lines everywhere. Escaping them wasn’t really a possibility. ‘Don’t cross the line’ his Boss would say. ‘Please wait in line’ the pharmacy sign would order. The Nazca Lines out in Peru was the last time he enjoyed seeing anything associated with that word. They were more large-scale pieces of art, not exactly line-like in the common sense of the term. Fed up, he kicked the ground underneath him. This would do nothing except scuff the bottom of his shoe, another visit to the local cobbler the only outcome of that repeated action. Often, he’d find himself refraining from things that would cost him money in the future. Not that he had much. That was the problem. His mum had always told him that he walked a narrow path, in other words a straight line. Sadly, that wasn’t the straight line to success. If it was, it was way off in the distance, so far he couldn’t see it just yet. Although his vision wasn’t one of perfection either, avoiding the opticians had saved him a few quid but probably cost him more in the long run.
If only he had been born into wealth, he thought. Silk pyjamas, silver wear and grandiose halls would await him as his eyes would creep open. Instead, he woke up to the dim light of the streetlamp, his curtain a weak excuse for fabric. They’d be better off being used as shower curtains, or even if he botched up some Prom dress out of it and sold it to some poor student trying to make one final impression on the boy she’d fancied all these years. She’d make an impression alright, but it would unlikely be the one she’d hoped for. At least that would avoid any evening debauchery. Prom nights had the tendency for taking people off track. One night they’d be a King heading for a prestigious University on a full scholarship, next they’d be a family man working a nine to five at the local construction site, feeding the kid he abruptly brought into his world. Sometimes he wished he’d had that. At least that way he’d have a family to go home to at the end of the night. Someone who’d always smile and wave their hands in the air when he was in the room, that sounded nice. He barely got a glance these days. The old ladies stopped being nice to him too, that was when he really hit a low. When the old start realising, you’re more miserable than them, that’s when you’re really in the shit.
For the most part, he kept his heart in a zip lock bag. That way less people would ask him if he had one. A question he grew tired of. Course he had one. Silly question.
It was like asking the sky if it was blue. Yes, sometimes it looked grey, but even the sky got tired of being the same colour.
He would leave it sat next to him when eating his lunch at the local park.
The pigeons would bob their head and move in closer, thinking if they lingered for long enough, they'd get a piec; his heart an escaped crumb from a loveless granary loaf.
They didn't know any better.
Neither did the children who would stare as they were dragged past by their mother's hand. 'Anyone told you it was rude to stare' I'd think to myself. It was no use however, Children were curious beings. They probably wondered why I was feeding my heart to the pigeons, the pigeons wondered why I wasn't.
Regardless, it sagged over on itself looking disgruntled.
I should have probably written my name on it, across one of the semi translucent white lines, just incase I did ever misplace it.
How long could I go without it? There are lots of people wanting a replacement these day. Suppose I never got it back, that wouldn't be ideal.
What if the sky never turned blue again? Would the birds refuse to sing? One thing for sure is that the pigeons would still be hungry.
He sat at his desk unable to write. Something he had done for many years with no qualms or disturbances beforehand. This was a most unusual feeling for him. Work was fun to him. The spreadsheets, the maths, all of that was a world he was familiar with. A different kind of language that did not need emotions or a sorry or even a thank you. It had been over fourteen years since he had seen her, left her that late afternoon on the edge of the woods. He hadn’t given it much thought since had he been honest with himself. That was something he became very good at, blocking certain memories out. Yet, for him to even begin putting pen to paper, reliving those memories, would be a whole lot more than necessary. It would be vital. An apology from the heart is what she deserved after all. All those years wondering where he had gone. There had been no phones then in which to track him. One minute they were together and the next they were strangers. The five previous years clearly an indication of nothing. A meaningless flitter of laughs and cries that ultimately fell on deaf ears. Her face. He remembered seeing her face in the wing mirror. That was the one thing that did stay with him and an image he could never shake.
He would see it when on the way to work, the bus’ wing mirror staring back at him whilst waiting to get on. He stopped getting the bus after a while. The train was about the only place void of reflections but even then, early starts meant the windows on the train turned into one long bathroom mirror. In those fourteen years he would have expected to forget what she looked like. He even managed to for a few months. He worked from home and took down the mirror on the bathroom cabinet, brushing his teeth was just about manageable that way.
She had almost disappeared from memory until Christmas rolled around. His parents would not listen to his excuses this time, forcing him to come over for the roast this year. He’d have to put up with the questions and his sister’s fiancé, but that was not what did it. His parents had handed him over a box shaped present which he reluctantly unwrapped. Presents at Christmas had never been his thing, especially seeing as he was trying to avoid any unnecessary attention this year. Pulling down the wrapping paper he saw the picture of a small mirror on a swivel. ‘Bout time you had a shave’, his dad said laughing, the others chuckled with him, ‘go on then, open it up’. Hesitant didn’t begin to describe how he felt, thinking if he got the formality of smiling out the way, his parents would go back to praising his sister. He yanked at the object in the box, and it suddenly came loose. There it was the shaving mirror looking back at him in shock. He had not seen his face this close for months. He had barely recognised himself. His face was a lot hairier and podgier; the evening beers had taken its toll. As he began to touch his face, discovering his aging-self, she appeared behind his shoulder. All those months vanished in that moment as he was back to the way he felt on his morning commute. She had never left. She was stood behind his shoulder all this time, only he could never see her. Without a reflection, she didn’t exist.
The city lay in front of everyone, a model village to them, they had never felt so big. A city that once swallowed them up with its’ big skyscrapers and wall art now seemed all so small.
“London eye, London eye” a little child called out. A large spinning wheel now fit between his two fingers. He tried pinching it, but it wouldn’t seem to move. A panorama of symbols filled the landscape, from edge to edge a focus point merely blurring them out. They would never disappear.
Sprawled out before them, an extravagant banquet. A feast fit for royalty. often gobbled up by those who sat in quiet halls in which ceilings remained inexplicably high along with their standards of life.
There stood as many cranes as there were high-rises. A future that pointed towards the sky, hinting at growth, but only in the literal sense. What was the cost? Soon the skyline would be full each building bigger than the other, a concrete competition.
Yet, the people wouldn’t change, staying as they had been, even shrinking. An earth that could no longer feed them through the greed of those sat in their vast spaces. They would carry on starving as the towers would gorge themselves on the sun that reigned above them, casting a shadow amongst those that built them, that birthed these monstrous Giants of the sky.
“My shoes, damn fool that I am, were Mexican huaraches, plantlike sieves not fit for the rainy night of America and the raw road night.”
– On the Road page 12
“Montana Slim turned to me, pointed at my shoes, and commented, ‘You reckon if you put them things in the ground something’ll grow up?’ – without cracking a smile, of course, and the other boys heard him and laughed. And they were the silliest shoes in America; I brought them along specifically because I didn’t want my feet to sweat in the hot road, and except for the rain in Bear Mountain they proved to be the best possible shoes for my journey. So I laughed with them. And the shoes were pretty ragged by now, the bits of colored leather sticking up like pieces of a fresh pineapple and my toes showing through.”
On the Road page 27
These two quotes I highlighted when reading Jack Kerouac’s On the Road because it raised an interesting point; what shoes would you take on a huge road trip? An easy question at first but ultimately an important one. When I recently went to Peru back in the beginning of this year I ended up taking 3 pairs. The Solomon Speedcross 4 Gore tex’s for hikes, Nike Air Max Deluxe’s for getting about the cities and some LA Sportiva Approach shoes for any muddy terrain. The shoes I ended up undoubtably wearing the most were my La Sportiva’s because they were simply the most comfortable. Had I only been able to take one pair, I would have probably opted for the Deluxe’s simply for the fact that they would look good when looking back at any photos from the trip. In hindsight, what we wear on foot should be first and foremost comfortable.
With the recent knowledge I have gathered about minimal footwear and the benefits it has for the body, I would definitely consider a pair of Mexican Huaraches myself. Like the experience of the main protagonist, I would no doubt be the brunt of some jokes, but ultimately avoiding injuries by being more balanced would give me the last laugh. Not to mention I’d end up with some funky tan lines. It’d have my foot looking like that ridiculous foot tattoo that guy had of a Nike TN.
I dream of Brazil,
I dream of listening to bosa nova
music in a café whilst eating my breakfast.
I lift up a cup of warm coffee,
a taste unfamiliar to me more than
a few months ago but one that
now greets my lips like an old friend.
The novel I’m reading is
sat on the table,
much like I’m sat next to it,
resting yet again until
I breathe life into it
or more so,
until it breathes life into me.
My pulse tempers as I
flick through the pages,
my mind anywhere but here,
any time but now.
I place the book down,
pausing to stare at the
frolicking waves to my side.
Out there,
there is nothing for miles,
no land for mankind.
Good,
keep it that way.
Leave the fish to swim,
whilst I finish this cup of coffee.
I recently picked up a new vintage T shirt. Surprise, surprise. I suppose for those of you who don’t now me on a personal level, it would be a surprise. So lets just say it’s very on-brand for me. Seeing @thewonderfulflight post on their Instagram story one Sunday, that their “£10 pound rail was back”, I felt it only right to check it out. Having picked up about 15 or so vintage t shirts from this closing down sale in Middlesbrough only the day before, I most likely should have skipped his opportunity however I could not resist. I justified it to myself as a pre-gym pitstop, nothing more, nothing less.
I arrived about 20 minutes later, taking a leisurely commute on my trusty Raleigh Road bike, as it was a pleasant summers day. Seeing the rail outside, I confirmed with guy working the shop that it was in fact the £10 section. I scoured the rails and eventually found two t shirts I was fond of. One of them was this pale-yellow t shirt with this cool stick figure graphic in which the faces were monochromatic. Very hip. The other one which I slightly preferred was a very light-pink t shirt with a wholesome, lettering graphic on the front. “Coolest Grandpa in the World” it read. Or at least that’s what I thought it read. I’m all for ironic t shirt’s, and whilst I am pretty sure that I am not a grandpa, I thought it would be a whimsical thought for anyone reading the t shirt to have. Trying them both on, I confirmed I looked Andre 3 stacks and headed to the counter to purchase them.
One sweaty gym session later and I was headed to my friends for a takeaway. The meal was wolfed down in no time at all as I had built up quite the appetite. Eventually the fact that I had gone and purchased yet again more vintage t shirts had become the talking point. “ahh here we go, what did you get this time?” asked my mate, rolling his eyes back.
“Nah trust these are actually too cool” I replied, unzipping my bag, getting ready to show them. I prewarned them as I knew it wouldn’t be their cup of tea to begin with, letting them know I was in fact now certified as “The Coolest Grandpa in the World”. Holding the t shirt up so they could both read it, one of them shouted. “You know it says Coolest Grandma,not Coolest Grandpa”. My face dropped. They started howling. “No it doesn’t” I said in disbelief. I was in fact wrong. At this point the slightly pink colour of the t shirt made a whole lot more sense. Was the irony of the slogan stretched too far? I wondered. It had gone from faintly unbelievable, to unrealistic. A rather large difference if you ask me. Was I going to get approached by those rabid street interviewers asking me for my pronouns? I better start practising my “they/them” response asap in that case. The t shirt was still wholesome and now tapped into a feminist vibe which I was most evidently here for. I loved my grandma too; she was quite the character and am sure she would have appreciated me wearing this t.
I now sit here typing this out in the exact pro-Grandma t shirt that I have been describing. I have accidently slept in it and have worn it on my train commute back home. I feel like I have fully embraced the t shirt and it has embraced me back. It’s a work in progress but I think we’ll get there with persistence and gratitude. Luckily, I didn’t bump into any interviews on the journey home, although I did see a few people staring at my torso area. I was ready to put down my copy of Jack Keroauc’s On the Road, blurting out the pronouns I had practiced earlier. Apologies, I am just being silly at this point but the point still stands, this is most definitely my favourite t shirt at the moment.
All Photos taken on the Sony Ericsson Cyber-Shot (2008)
I went to Edale again. It had been almost a year since my last visit. I was supposed to go with a friend but because she fell ill, I had to travel Solo (I’m not talking Han). I knew the journey there all too well. Board the train to Sheffield that leaves Manchester Piccadilly every hour at ten-to, 45 minutes later and you’re there, slap bang in the Peak District. A short walk from the train station and I found myself on the same route that I had walked before. It was a fair, old trek from what I remember clocking in at about 15KM’s but the weather was perfect, so I was here for it.
Whilst Ascending I got a call from my mate in London. The Daily call to talk about the curses and blessings of life seemed all too familiar. The subject of this conversation revolved around me convincing him to pay for my night out in London with some of his illustrious and well-paid friends. The exercise seemed futile and resulted in a strong no, however it helped me forget about the ascent, so proved useful. As I got to the top, it was very evident that my t shirt was soaked through with sweat. There hadn’t been much of a breeze so cooling down was proving particularly challenging. I tied the t shirt to my backpack and decided to let it dry off in the suns heat. This worked well as by the time I was ready to descend Jacob’s Ladder it was nice and dry. Making my way around the circular trail above, I recalled the footsteps and particular rocks that I had passed by a year before.
It had been hatching season from what I could see as all the flying ants were crawling about the rocks. They didn’t prove to be much of a nuisance in the end, making only for the occasional swat of the hand. Not having done much trail running in the months previous I only dabbled in that form of exercise on the hike. I was cautious of not twisting an ankle as the lack of practice could have rendered them weak. To make the walk harder, I decided to hold off on any food or beverage until I had hit the 10KM mark. Making up to the point of ascension was nearly 5KM so doing another 5K seemed manageable.
My favourie picture from that day. The rock formation, the sweeping grass and the clear blue skies leave me feeling peaceful.
Once I hit the 10KM mark I immediately stopped for a heavy gulp of water, a cliff bar and a very timely banana. Whilst trying to enjoy the view and the recently consumed nutrition, I became a local hot spot for the flying ants so decided to go on my merry way. I still couldn’t quite see Jacob’s Ladder so I asked two on coming hikers if they had ascended that way. They replied with a kind “Yes” and after bit of map-pointing later, we established it was about another 3KM.
A quick 3KM later and there I was once again, at the top of the Ladder. I had just missed two mountain bikers who had begun their descent. I would poop bricks if I had to descend by bike, it certainly wasn’t for the faint hearted. Making my way down, I let myself gather some speed as I’d recently found out that stopping your momentum too much on a downhill section was quite bad for the knees. This seemed to work well because not 5 minutes later, I raised my head up and realised I was at the bottom. Strava seemed to back up my quick descent too, receiving a shiny Gold Medal for my quickest descent to-date. Sure, I was far off first place but that was nae bother.
Unfortunately, the walk back to Edale seemed to drag on as I would usually have run this section in order to make it for the train. However, I had time to kill, which meant a pint at the Ramblers Inn. I had always walked past the pub but never stopped for a libation. My casual drinking days were few and far between but today seemed like a perfect day for a pint of cider. “Pint of water and a pint of cider please mate”. He looked at my ‘Another happy climber’ Frog T shirt and proceeded to pour me my liquids. Waiting for my drinks, a man seemed to struggle keeping control of his dog. He’d lost the lead at the top of Mam Tor and wasn’t exactly keen to go rushing back for it. I didn’t mind and neither did the other people dotted about the pub. The dog was just having a nose about as it was designed to.
I sat down alone and sank the glass of water so as to not finish the cider off too quickly. It didn’t work. Although I was no longer as thirsty which was nice. With time to spare, I strolled to the Train Station which was literally round the corner. The sun was setting as I sat down on the gravel platform. Another successful hike, another solo hike. A few hours to think and gather my thoughts. It was quiet up there on the hill tops, which reflected the current noise levels in my head.
The train ride back was fun. All the windows were open, so the breeze was more than pleasant. There was another curious dog lay down in front of me. He would scan the carriage, but I couldn’t make of what he saw. Sometimes I wasn’t sure of what I was seeing myself. I could see it but often wouldn’t give it much more than a fleeting thought. I’d save that for the more important things, like where would I hang up my 6ft, French Lord of the Rings poster. A thought that frequently crossed my mind these last few weeks. I suppose I’ll stop wondering once I’ve figured it out.
I was at Piccadilly now and my thirstiness has subsided into hunger. I headed to Ancoats Square thinking a Rudy’s would sort me right out only to change my mind. A burrito seemed more fitting. Wolfing down this burrito with a two-litre bottle of sparkling water whilst trapsing along Oxford Road, was the last image that stayed with me that evening. The Bus didn’t really seem with today’s trip, so I walked home instead. I headed for the shower and hit the hay. ‘A good day wasn’t it’, I thought, drifting off to sleep.
The skies seemed more blue in Brazil. The birds seemed more flighty. Unwilling to land or even comprehend the idea of closing their wings. To do so would be unjust. To do so would mean that they were no longer souring. A part of the clouds Overhead and the Fish that naively swam below. So many of the two legged beings seemed happy. static on the hot sand that stopped the Sea in its footsteps. To them being still was part of life. a life they so often didn’t question. So few knew what it meant to Soar. so few cared to find out. They left the flying to the birds and the dying to themselves. The skies seemed more blue in Brazil, but the people died all the same.
That chair in the corner
looks comfy,
he thought,
or more,
he had thought
and continued to think.
Its brown leather
had been worn in
but by who?
The previous owner?
who was that?
he wondered.
It looked so far away,
like it had
hopped backwards
only moments before.
It’s almost like it’s scared
but it’s a chair,
so that’s not possible.
If it were it would make noises
Or give some sort of
Impression that is was.
Suppose it did look a bit
frowny, come to think of it.
“Tea’s ready”
Who’s this?
wear shoes, write poems 