new numbers
The tube stations I want to get to are shut. I walk backwards and forwards several times between announcement board, barrier and ticket machines. It makes no difference. Walking out of the tube station I brush past a man heading down the steps in as much of a hurry as I am not in.
A few minutes later, the man walks up to me. He looks Chinese. He’s middle aged. He wears a navy anorak. He needs to get to Tooting Broadway. He’s in a hurry. He speaks no English. He points at things. I find the bus and the bus stop he needs. It’s a 44. I point at the numbers. It crosses my mind he might not recognise Roman numerals. He doesn’t seem very grateful. I leave him to catch a bus to Camden. I look over my shoulder at him but he’s already forgotten me.
+++
On top of the hill in Brockwell park, there are 360 degrees of fireworks. It’s like being in a beautiful war. I tell Matthew he might as well go to bed now. New York cannot compete with this. He might as well give up and go to bed and wait for another new year to come along to celebrate. On the way down the hill, a man from Mount Barker plays a Dylan song I don’t know. In the rain.
+++
The 88 bus doesn’t take all that long. I change at Camden. I’m falling asleep. I’d set myself to make it through to the dawn but the sky’s grey and lifeless and bleak, as though it’s asking why I bothered.
+++
Max makes about 50 bruschetta. It takes half an hour. I tell him he’s wasting his time, they’ll never get eaten. They all get eaten.
+++
It’s about five thirty. The host says he wants to go to sleep so he can get up and watch Gone With the Wind. He’s never seen the whole thing. His girlfriend wants to make a bed up. I could fall asleep in a second. My brain’s gone through enough cartwheels. But I’ve decided to leave and so leave I shall. It’s still night outside. In the sky there’s a faint pink light next to a faint blue light. The twin lights hover over the city. I assume at first that this is the first glimpse of dawn, but these lights never seem to change or evolve into daylight. The dawn of 2006 comes from somewhere else. It floods in sideways.
A few minutes later, the man walks up to me. He looks Chinese. He’s middle aged. He wears a navy anorak. He needs to get to Tooting Broadway. He’s in a hurry. He speaks no English. He points at things. I find the bus and the bus stop he needs. It’s a 44. I point at the numbers. It crosses my mind he might not recognise Roman numerals. He doesn’t seem very grateful. I leave him to catch a bus to Camden. I look over my shoulder at him but he’s already forgotten me.
+++
On top of the hill in Brockwell park, there are 360 degrees of fireworks. It’s like being in a beautiful war. I tell Matthew he might as well go to bed now. New York cannot compete with this. He might as well give up and go to bed and wait for another new year to come along to celebrate. On the way down the hill, a man from Mount Barker plays a Dylan song I don’t know. In the rain.
+++
The 88 bus doesn’t take all that long. I change at Camden. I’m falling asleep. I’d set myself to make it through to the dawn but the sky’s grey and lifeless and bleak, as though it’s asking why I bothered.
+++
Max makes about 50 bruschetta. It takes half an hour. I tell him he’s wasting his time, they’ll never get eaten. They all get eaten.
+++
It’s about five thirty. The host says he wants to go to sleep so he can get up and watch Gone With the Wind. He’s never seen the whole thing. His girlfriend wants to make a bed up. I could fall asleep in a second. My brain’s gone through enough cartwheels. But I’ve decided to leave and so leave I shall. It’s still night outside. In the sky there’s a faint pink light next to a faint blue light. The twin lights hover over the city. I assume at first that this is the first glimpse of dawn, but these lights never seem to change or evolve into daylight. The dawn of 2006 comes from somewhere else. It floods in sideways.
posted by maldoror at 10:57 p. m.
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