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January 11, 2006
A Hundred Metres
I hear a lot of interesting things on my balcony late at night.
I live in quite a pub oriented ‘cultural’ area, so there are lots of different kinds of people who live around me, and visit the area too.
The magnolia keeps me safe. I can eavesdrop comfortably for the time it takes them to walk fifty metres in either direction of my house.
A hundred metres of conversation, ha ha. Doesn’t sound like much, but it can be so very informative about people, characteristics, personalities, relationships ... people walk past and you’ll know they’re in love, or they’re bored, or housemates, or old friends, or their hearts have been broken ... a hundred metres can be a long way to travel past the balcony of Presiding Judge Sammy.
Course I don’t really know squat, everyone has their story.
Heard a couple of people go past my balcony just then. Here:
(distant arguing)
He walks past swearing, heads down the street.
She follows. Shouts abuse at him.
He slows down. She slows down. They remain equidistant.
Her: Fuck! Fuck you! Oh, fuck! (she stomps the ground forcefully with her feet)
He laughs at her.
Him: Come on. Come or not. Ah hahahahaha.
Her: Shit! Fuck you! (stamps her feet) Fuck! Holy fucking shit! Fuck you!
She is in the middle of the street walking so slowly as almost not to be, and screaming at the top of her lungs. He laughs, a cackle curving around a corner.
Him: Stay at my place if you like, ahahaha.
Her: Fuck you! You fucking fuck! Come back here! I’m not coming! Fuck! (stamps her feet) Fuck you! (stamps her feet for quite some time) FUCK YOU! Fuck!
She stands screaming in the street. He laughs again at her loud and feeble abuse. A tabby walks into the lamplight and stretches his legs, sauntering nonchalantly out into the street. The man's laughter fades away into the distance. The woman stops in shadows, throwing down her bag and screaming the same words again and again at the pavement, stamping her feet. She stops screaming to stamp, and stops stamping to scream – they seem to be very separate events. The tabby wanders towards her, curiously eyeing the drama. He keeps his distance however, slumping down in a c curl so as not to imply any respect. Eventually, crying, she stands. She swears quietly to herself, picks up her bag, and off she goes, down the street, after the man.
The tabby yawns. Whatever it was has passed out of his kingdom, yet the trees still sway and the leaves fall. The wind still blows metallic and chemical down the channel of houses from the main street, as it should be. The concrete is always nice and flat. Sometimes the sun warms these streets and makes for good basking - or if it’s too hot there’s always a shady hole under a house or a garage somewhere. Birds in the trees ripe for plucking, vermin on the ground, fights to be fought, broods to be made.
Besides, he’s seen it all before.
The kingdom stands and all is well.
Posted by Sam Bowring at January 11, 2006 02:42 AM