Profound

 

You've read all the guidebooks on your way here, I'm sure, and you're hoping for something more profound from me, but I feel I will disappoint you. 

You see, our architecture, the art that makes us famous throughout the galaxy, really is simply a result of our predictable climate. As you know, our weather is exactly the same every calendar year, every day of that year, the weather each day is exactly the same as the corresponding day of the previous year. Exactly the same this year, next year, and every year for as far ahead as we can perceive. It's only natural that our architecture is simple, sparse, almost invisible, it's purpose is so refined by our weather that no tolerances for extremes are required. This leads to profound beauty. 

You've read about why our climate is as it is, the nature of our solar system and the planet itself. I can't add anything to what you've read, it's well enough documented. What you may not understand is how this precise predictability affects our entire culture. Nearly everywhere else in the galaxy the calendar is a fleeting thing, each day individual, never repeated, forgotten. Here each day is profound, deep, like a canyon grooved by centuries of water, one of an eternal chain, repeated and therefore remembered. Each day matters, because each day has a character, it's own being. 

Our architecture protects us from exactly what it needs to protect us from, exactly for each day. The extension of the rain annexe, on the same day each year, for the same number of days, is a festival, a rite, essential to our culture, essential to our architecture. The hoisting of the wind sail, three times a year, is a ceremony of the coming age of the strong young men. I guess you could say the climate is our religion, our architecture our holy book. 

I can't say anything more profound about it, the climate or the architecture, they are both profound in and of themselves. Repeated, perfected, an example, a way to live, so our architecture is alive in a way, that's why you're here, why you had to experience it, not just read the guidebooks. 

I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I can't tell you anything more profound than that.

Parkstreet

Bullfighter

 

As soon as he was big enough to carry the scraps bucket he was given the daily task of feeding the geese. One goose, the largest of them, tried to peck him every morning. So proud of being appointed a real job he couldn't admit that the goose terrified him, learned to place the tin bucket between himself and his antagonist, a tiny bullfighter. Every noisy peck on the bucket made his heart beat faster, every morning was a torment, every morning the boy grew bigger without noticing it, as boys that age do.

One day he realized he was looking down on the large goose, towering over it, as if the goose had shrunk overnight. He placed the bucket on the ground, a flamboyant act, as if he were laying down his red cape, staring down his foe, displaying the absence of fear. The goose instinctively knew his reign of terror was over, ran away like a bully.

Years later the man turned to the crowd and bowed, flowers fell at his feet, the felled bull was carried away and he realised he had taken the wrong lesson from the goose.

Parkstreet

Rock And Roll Monkey

 

The organ grinder's monkey learned to like dancing for the people. 

At first the grinder would see tourists approaching, wind up the organ and prod the monkey with a static electricity stove lighter. Over time the monkey found he liked the attention, the praise, the scraps of food that were showered on him by strangers. Eventually the monkey would spot tourists before the organ grinder did, begin dancing before the music even started.

In the mind of the monkey his dancing created the music, the organ grinder was his servant. He knew nothing of the commerce, the cash dropped into the organ grinder's box, the pay off for his work.

Welcome to the business of rock and roll my monkey friend.

Parkstreet 

Photo by Danny Tran

He Is The Hemingway Of Horn Players

 

He is the Hemingway of horn players, plays only the notes that need playing, plays of a lived life. His dialogue with the drummer, the bassist, is to the point, informs the truth and nothing but.

His beauty is not in the florid display of a million brilliant notes blooming in the hothouse of ego, it is a single, honest rose, mature in it's own time and place. He feels no need to embellish his richly coloured, delicate petals, he knows they will fall and become dust in their own time.

He speaks between tunes, his voice a bell, resonant of the tune before, the tune to come.

It is his voice, everything he says and does, on stage and off, is his voice, speaking in simple, beautiful, truthful notes.

He is the Hemingway of horn players.

Parkstreet

Eleven

 

Eleven Autumns have passed since, hand in hand, we kicked through fallen leaves along Park Street together, on our way home. The leaves look and feel the same, but they are different leaves. My hand is empty.

Parkstreet

Dirt

 

Despite the cold the detective attended the funeral. The mourners in almost uniform long black coats stark against the frosted green of the lawn, the steam of their breath cartoon captions of grief. 

Service complete, coffin lowered, the family stepped forward to collect a handful of dirt, drop it on the wooden lid, a shocking noise in the chill silence.

The detective observed the sister in law of the dead man, his brother's wife, as she rushed back to her handbag, removed a moist paper towel from a small plastic canister, rapidly cleansed her hand, like a guilty lover wiping away a lipstick kiss too quickly.

Parkstreet

Dedication

 

If I ever write a book I’ll make up an obscure dedication.

“For Derek, for always knowing when to warm a teapot and when to man the barricades.”

Then I’ll be compelled to write a story titled Teapots And Barricades, but not mention Derek in it at all.

And another story about Derek that doesn’t mention barricades, or teapots.

I’m dedicated to fiction. 

Parkstreet