‘I don’t know where the weird ends and I begin’
The phrase kept flipping over in his mind like a pancake, as he went through the typical bar talk, he couldn’t think of a single thing to say that wouldn’t alter his reputation in a negative way; he was starting afresh, though it was already after a few months beginning to turn stale; he originally wanted to just leave his home, tired of the same four walls, the same four friends; trudging the beach and using alcohol as a general anesthetic ; but in typical fashion, the grass now seemed greener in neighboring isles;
The great divided Hong Kong; with the toy town streets of Central, the smell of sea and the dreaded Kowloon, where fishballs were the order of the day; he had literally sailed and began to snack upon the culture; though the taste was good; it was rich, besides; there was no market there for his profession; a uniquely trivial position; he had began researching Taiwan; a sort of crossover between Chinese and Hong Kong culture; where he could be prosperous or at least give it a shot.
He was an intensely trivial man really, the hair was sometimes unkempt, but he always made an effort to dress and eat only what was fashionable in a new city, he’d had his fair share of people; he’d found a way to connect with the world; sometimes the line was bad; sometimes; he found that with uptight people; they may as well be sending coded messages sewn on the inside of his underpants; wasn’t it strange to get on with completely strangers; meet people in bus stops and change direction; like a spinning top.
What did he miss about Wales? Nothing intensely pressing beyond the sea and libations; the great amalgamation of British life; run down measly pubs and big chains; talkative shopkeepers; London and the hipster crowd; puffing on an electric cigarette for no real reason; being incarcerated into No Sign Wine Bar as everywhere else had closed down.
Now he’d emigrated, there was a certain poetic element to everything remotely British or local; even a pork pie would be a welcome sight; This is probably the curse of traveling; you are giving up security, people that have known you and yet even things you didn’t particularly find memorable or cherished at the time have grown in their meaning and resonance; while in the last months, the trip had dangled like a sword of damocles, like the sunny morning after a few flutes of champagne in the previous evening.
Maybe things had cracked slightly and his brain had considered and touched every seam; from the sleepy dumpling sellers; the drunken belt man in the neighborhood; the late night fruit sellers; it was an interesting journey; full to the brim of culture really: all mostly an iceberg yes, submerged; but at the same time, he’d also laid incense with the local people; but the pang of faces he knew, visiting then leaving was a stronger feeling; he’d considered religion; hokey relaxation techniques and what he was going to put on his toast in this strange region.
——
The turnstiles still turn, the trains always run and the people always rush; they’re crazy: but that very morning after considering his entire future: with shadows on the walls; he couldn’t really analyze in-depth; so he listened to his Beatles and proceeded to eat an entire small islands worth of fruit; these were his hobbies now;
He wanted to pick all the fruits in all the gardens of the world as Wilde wrote; but he needed to work out what routine to fit this ambition into; maybe he just really wanted a cup of tea and a lie down sometimes; he didn’t really know; isn’t the whole world all really about consuming things anyway? or is there really some type of consciousness that is only touched upon through some magic trick, some man in the sky; something to put some faith into?
When you envision a perfect day; What do you see? Do you wake up after sleeping well? Immediately consume a Bloody Mary, scratch your privates and have your favorite breakfast? Does it start like this and end up with friends in the pub by around midday? Every perfect day has a little bit of blue cheese in it somewhere; and a decent wash; every perfect day has sand and sea in it also, but not at the same moment as the blue cheese: sandy blue cheese is associated with the worst day in the world.
When you envision your worst day; What do you see? Is your hair greasy? Did you break a tooth? Are they coming to arrest you? Did you get a bad sandwich on the way to Hong Kong? Is the world shitting on you on an hourly basis?
What is the history behind these loosely connected, possibly irrational and ill-informed meanderings framed vaguely around some kind of narrative? Is writing for the sake of writing important; or a reckless waste of time; Just know I’m a Sagittarius… I apologize for posting this; Most of the notes were found rung together inside a garbage can.
¡Hola! Carlos 