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

To No Longer Whoosh

 If you’ve lost someone dear to you.

And I mean lost the dearest person to you in the whole world.

When I say I daydream of dying, reuniting, being two beams of pure energy and whooshing through the universe together, holding hands, even though we no longer have hands, and everything being beauty and wonder, you’ll know what I mean.

If you’ve lost the person you can’t imagine not talking with every day.

And I mean the only person you need to talk with because you’ve lost the only person.

You’ll know what I mean when I say we’ll whoosh until it feels right to no longer whoosh, then together become some other thing. 

You know what I mean. 

Parkstreet

For Jacqueline Elizabeth Scanlon, written through tears, twenty five years later.