Blow Job

Town was spattered with revellers again. The residue of students reluctant to go home for the summer, perhaps. Four lads are sitting on a bench on the Prom just along from Pier Pressure, their legs stretched out. They are eating fried chicken out of cartons. Blow job, one of them says as I walk past. Was that for my behalf? Who knows? I am sanguine.

I woke from a dream in which he’d been handing over some blood samples that he’d taken himself. He was passing them through a sort of hatch. And then he became me. It was I who was passing over those little plastic tubes.

I forgot to mention what I saw yesterday. A young man, black, tying a lobster creel with a long rope to a bench on the Prom, just opposite the Cardigan Bay B&B. He was fixed on his task. Round and round went the rope. Tighter and tighter. Had he found it in the sea? They usually belong in the harbour, piled up like mountains by the wharf edge. It wasn’t there today. I looked for it but it was gone.

The light mornings are passing. No blue sky as I walk home. We were rancorous yesterday. Neither having patience with the other. I was most at fault. My back was tight and I couldn’t take his long face any longer. I know it’s irritating, he said. No, no, I said. But it was. I was unkind.

Light played across the buildings on the other side of the harbour. I’ve never seen that before. The sea lapping and reflected on the white walls. Rather beautiful.

We just do our best. He isn’t brave. So be it.

I wanted to write about my sewing. It gives me such stress. My head rubbishes it and yet I want to do it, so much. It is a nothing and yet it is something. The¬†flow of it. The forming of the letters, the words that become unrecognisable even after each stitch is placed. It is an experiment as it all is at the moment. But still I want some form of completion. To see it through. To see them all through. This one, the list of radio programmes I have listened to while sewing, pleases me from a distance. I like the black on white. The way the thread bleeds into the white. The knotty-ness of it. It reminds me of old typeset books, that same unevenness. That same bleeding. I had a series of old Latin bible pages¬†just like that. What is the Japanese word for mistake, error in ceramic? It’s something like that, that handwork thing that both pleases and unsettles me. Do you want to do it? he asks. Yes. I say. Well that is good enough reason.

I’m listening to an audio of my walk as I write this. Fascinating. I want to write a soundscape. The swish of my waterproof trousers and something else a scraping sound, could be the machine against my thigh. The seagulls, the shout of drunken kids. It has potential, I like the rhythm of my walking.

Outside a magpie clackety-clacks.