A daily two-hour commute on public transport heading to something which resembles a large red triangle of sorts. A town full of supermarkets and pound-shops instead of aspirations. Poverty and push chairs, mothers and mobility scooters. Bellies and breasts, clad in orange, clad it knocked off sportswear, male and female. Tattooed necks, wrists and knuckles, shiny earrings, belts and buckles. Give it a sausage roll, thank god for Greggs.
Human life equal i hope as i try to put this race into context, picture a global place, many not knowing quite how lucky they are. Anti black, anti asian, anti anything but the tribe. Orange as tanaka and kappa as lungis. Pies and pasties not rice and pigs heads. Curry becomes common ground. Is there more to life than this as it’s not exotic enough for me. All too harsh, edgy, angry. So extreme.
Yellow wintry light fills the wide spacious streets, whilst penetrating my early morning walnut eyes, behind shattered retro gold. Gold from a glorified time. Round three of the road to the town of tribes.
Last nights dinner seeps from the other non driving commuters. From their regular seats before 7:45 AM. Light stinky gas filling the air, eyes full of motorway. Smart shirts and newspapers, space and insular flesh. I choose nil by mouth.
The first frost of September, twenty-seven horses and hot food in lay-byes. Rainbow sun spinning east to west. Unrecognizable in a hundred fabrics, hot in the early morning light, unpeeled. Perched knees ahoy, rocking and riding with the rhythm of the road. Yes again. Houses cutting shapes in the foreground of transient fire. Thoughts jut to cold winter nose steam exhaling from those perfect velvety lined cavities. Little furry horsed purses.
An epic everyday journey is fusing with the special needs and the desperation of others,myself included. A silky headband and overgrown hands. Far from a pilgrimage but a journey on repeat, a test and an opportunity to give , i just hope they want it, i think. Life through glass and glass. A traveling greenhouse where nothing grows, so i read Shantaram. The flesh becomes a breathing garden, my job being to plant in order to flourish. Teaching is like gardening. Students are like plants. This years crop.