The Blue Dolphin is for sale. The Blue Dolphin is a fishing boat. A rounded tub of a boat, Captain Pugwash style. I don’t think it would cut through waves but bob on that fishing-boat-bobbing sea. There is a handwritten sign, drawn on wood, advertising the sale and the price. The seller wants three thousand pounds. Three thousand pounds for a chunky, lumpy means of escape whether literal or metaphorical. Will you buy?
The night felt odd. All the clocks of the town awry. Kids were still queuing up to get into the Pier Pressure night club, penned in by portable railings. I watched as a policeman touched a girl’s arm. She looked like she’d been crying. He touched her arm, the bare skin of her shoulder, and gestured for her to follow him. Nothing was said. She followed and they joined a group of people near the exit.
I must make a start on my piece this morning but I’m dog-tired. Five hundred words, that’s the goal today to just get something down. It will come. I thought about my fear of writing as I walked. I practised detaching myself, of trying to let my failings just be. Then I tried faith – belief that it will just occur. Then I tried just being in the fear, inhabiting, making it familiar. In the end it just has to be started. The rest feels like procrastination.
He didn’t show. The second time that has happened. My mother wouldn’t have believed it. Not of her countrymen. So be it. We had a nice time. He and I waiting and being silly. I’d like to draw in there. I watched a man with a thick white moustache eating. The moustache appeared to have a life of it’s own, dancing about as he chewed.
Things, sensations, my awareness are all heightened at this liminal time. There was a short story by Ray Bradbury on the radio about a man who walked in the early evenings. a futuristic story, he ends up being arrested for showing abnormal behaviour.
To work now before I fall asleep. Just five hundred words.
The lit church threw an arched shadow of light onto the road.