Re-reading this I find it hard to believe its truth. It's all a big dream really, maybe I was actually dreaming, because it all swooshed by quickly, a utopia flamethrow. There's even some bits I missed out: the jazz bar, where we watched a good band (and the Professor got a giggle out of a stranger for 'CRAP!'), talking to a Spanish girl about "very illegal drugs", breakfast at Roosters, another bizarre pigeon-infested square, the intimidating beggar outside the 24-hour off-licence. The more profound screenshots themselves float into myth, like that flimsy sleep-poisoned hour in the sepia square.
Chasing the invisible. Things falling away, getting further and further into Europe.
Here is the sketch:
Always mapped
above ground 'till we graze the fortresses
scythe. West to east and back again.
nuggets in a flurry of lager cans.
in my body. i am finally awake.
though an uneasy prickle bulbs
up above the more certain ground -
we cannot run away forever;
we must work to find a home.
I wake with the final hangover. My mind and my body completely frazzled. We grab our things and take our bags downstairs, where Michael is waiting. We thank this superstar for everything, for the tip-off about Kitsch, for the stories he told. I ask Michael his real name. He says it's Kubar. Whatever, this guy is sound as fuck.
Sleep nestles in the eyes, shadows of sun fleck across us. Blonde-blue canvas. There's a sense of finality in the air. I hug the Professor and reassure him it's been the Smash. He agrees. We're buying mugs and medallions for companions and family back home. I continue to squint and soak it up. I check to see if the salt crucifix is safe to take home to Liverpool, knowing there will be changes and this calm will melt in a few hours. A giant petrol-rainbow-coloured bubble flies across the courtyard.
© Copyright 2016 John Maher