On holiday on the islands. Green
mountains encircled by concrete roads.
The sound of water dripping, constantly. Roads burrowed through mountains.
And that absurd tunnel or secret passage which I found in my travel journal yesterday. Leading from page 14 to page 52. A
dark, dank passage full of rusting pipes, smelling of stale petrol and wet
coal. Illuminated occasionally -
grotesquely, neon-like - upon a wall, a phrase like Be careful her heart
is made of tissue paper. Having to get out of that passage. I
mean, I cannot make any useful connections between the two pages, so why does
this passage exist?. A typical trait of mine is found on page 14:
alliteration, one of the few literary devices my body breeds is clearly stencilled
into its fleshy vellum. Yet is curiously absent from page 52 which resembles
nothing so much as an abstract X-ray photograph or punk song circa 1976 full
of old bones and black bile.
I'm still smarting over He has a negative memory, as I come out of the bathroom. On top of this a sign and a poster
both jerk into my head. Cashmachine (all one word) and The Sky is Perfect
When it's Blue (an advert for Moersk
Air). Both from the airport. You would think I have jet lag or
'Who's been using my Ron Thompson?'
I ask, unable to dampen the accusatory tone.
Silence. I look down at the
small, round tin in my trembling hands.
Improves buoyancy in tired floating lines and transforms
Carol, the culprit, I knew it, raises an arm, hesitantly, likes she's just
been asked who the King of Prussia is in a history lesson and is not one
hundred per cent sure of the answer. Colin, her spouse, blushes for her.
'But Carol, you don't fish.'
A puzzled look spreads over Carol's features, like a ripple over a mountain
lake when a salmon jumps, glinting into the early morning sun.
And then, in the weak artificial light of the hotel room, I look more closely
at Carol's unusually grey features and a light bulb of greater wattage lights
up in my rickety brain.
Light/And behind the light/ Light.
And I realize.
'Carol, this is for my fishing tackle.'
Are you a muse or a mouse? Make note: Must stop
keeping travel journals.
'Tackle, as in fishing lines,' Torben puts in.
I show her the top of the Ron Thompson lid and read off:
' ... and transforms neutral-densisty lines into floaters or sink
tips. I mean, what did you think it was, a facial treatment? And
these plain-speaking fisherman's words, some new-fangled form of beauty
'Well, actually, actually yes,' she stutters.
I detect a flamingo pink under the claylike grey as Colin quickly bustles her
into the bathroom and briskly turns the key in the lock.
'Boy, do we need to get up to that lake, and how,' Torben says.
Kane Evans 2004