Friday, March 26, 2010

Golden Hour

[Not even a chicken, certainly not a Stornoway Chicken. Although it thinks it is. But from Tolsta]


I’m rolling down the road like an old lady, back arched against the rain no idea where I’m going. The rain is coming down vertically – which is strange since the wind is howling. Howling like a deranged wolf in new jersey or somewhere half-baked like that. Who cares? A weird sense unnerves me and I shuffle down Francis Street past the repository of old things, an echoing edifice where a little walrus tooth man sits. Alone. All alone.

Here” a voice chirps. “Here, take this. It’s on at the library. I saw you at Moishes Bagel. You’ll like this. A lot”. The chirping voice tails off its owner proffering a flapping piece of printed paper. I take it. I’m like that. Offer me something to look at and it’s difficult to refuse. An inner greediness just overwhelms me. The paper may be the answer to life. This life that surrounds me, baffles me and confounds me.

2. A golden hour. At the library of all places. The library retro-fitted and shiny. With books and computers to read this dreary blogesphere. Only its not. My eyes had been torn by visions of silver gelatin within the leaves of a tome. And I’m drawn to the café – all wobbly glass now filled, brimming, steaming and chickened with personages, wine, song and verse. A Stornoway chicken ends the hour- the hour that is not an hour. Not even sixty minutes. Not even ninety but one hundred and twenty. One hundred and twenty and we end with a Stornoway Chicken stepping over the line. An imaginary line at that.


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