Bright City

I often feel at home

within the steel-sewn walls of a moving

vehicle. I watch the people on the bus, faces nonplussed,

travelling to places within  the motored steeple they trust. And

it feels almost lyrical. The purring of the engine whirring through

this urban centre of something SPECTACULAR. And the seatbelt cradles

me, I’ve never felt so safe, you see. And even as a K.F.C. melts into the blurring

concrete night, my bright eyes meet the nurt’ring windows of the folks behind the

faces, crowded round the T.V. sharing jokes in their dimly lighted places. And! Bright City,

me, you embolden. In your eyes, I blossom golden. I’m wise upon your shoulder, and more

as I grow older. Even when the nights dull your blaze as the days show colder, and

the streetlights meet fights from kids who’ve forgotten how to glow bright

in the eyes of their beholder. You’re the world, Bright City.

To me, you’re almost spherical. I often feel at

home within the steel-sewn walls

              of a moving vehicle . . .

A waste of Space

Lou Reed played on the stereo and she took a sip from a plastic cup. She wore a blue jumper with a blue badge on in the shape of an anchor and her eyes glimmered, framed by the sparkling eye shadow she’d applied so vigorously. She wanted to impress people at the party, to catch someone’s attention, even to enter someone’s orbit. She took another sip. The cheap wine touched the back of her throat and she winced, glitter falling from her upper face and skimming her cheeks. “Satellite of loOOve,” crooned Lou.

Space, they called her, because of her white-blonde hair and air of mystery. She shone like a burning ball of gas through the plateau of the universe. Her silver locks in torrents like rivers of lightning, energy strapped down by blue ribbons. She was electric, but, like a fire bound by glass, she fell beyond reach.

She’d come alone to the party. She’d overheard people talking about it at school and decided, perhaps, that she was to be bold and attend. It was likely she’d wanted to see Jim Rockit. It was common knowledge that she’d harboured affection for him for about four years now, watching him incessantly in the hallways, or glimpsing him on excursions with Nina Astral in his automobile – his vessel for making and breaking love.

It was also common knowledge that things with her family weren’t soaring. Her mother was a very poor woman, broken by the economic downturn, and frozen in a vacuum of bitterness. This resentment would often leak from the ice-block of her mother’s rage under the feet of Space, causing her to slip and slide and have her silver hair ripped by talons of fury. The house, then, rotated on an axis, once in a blue moon basking in golden light of prosperity, mostly eclipsed by darkness.

“You’re a waste!” her mother would scream, rubbing her own withered legs. “You’re going the same way as that Bobby! You’ll be dead before you know it,” acid clinging to the nebula of every word.

Robert Jones was a boy who existed outside of the orbit of those in the town, too. He had attempted to end his life on three occasions, unsuccessfully, and so had continued to exist. To many, if not all, he was a waste of space. And he knew it. But he liked to think that Space knew him, with their intermittent eye contact and occasional Hello’s.

They both lived in a town that was pale. When winter grasped the houses within its pastel, spindly hands, their roofs cried into the gutters and then froze and expanded. The others in the town saw this transformation as ghastly. They stood at their vast windows and surveyed the bleak land with disgust, wrinkling their polished noses before venturing downstairs to drink orange juice from clean spherical glasses.

Space stood at her window and put her hands on her glass. Ten pink ovals, extra-terrestrial on the transparent canvas. The walls of her room, visible behind her, were the relics of her world. Blue paint thrown with frustration over vicious black. She was mesmorising.

But she existed within a black hole. It was easy to see for those that looked closely enough – those who had loved her for what felt like a millennia and those that despaired through her sorrow.

That night as satellites of love fell, and Jim Rockit professed Nina Astral as his star, ­and those soulless people in that solar system remained in their alignment, Space left. She ran. She flew. The majority of attendees hadn’t even realised that she’d been at the party, let alone vanished, consumed entirely by her urge to flee. It was said that when the police arrived inquiring over the missing person, many of those in the crowd, including Jim Rockit, shook their heads in puzzlement. “What a waste,” they would later say when she never returned.

To me, though, Space had been my everything. The infinity of her vacant, black eyes had overwhelmed me in a way that had made me euphoric. She had brought me back from the clutches of death with single glances from spheres framed by shimmering eye shadow. She had brought colour to the pastel world within which I lived. I did not feel sad when I realised she was gone for good. I, after all, had followed her that night to make sure she was alright and the winter’s night had not glazed over her with frost or with melancholy. I saw her approach the blue bridge that stood above the viscous lake that separated our town from the next, and I knew that she would be okay. I, too, had been caressed by the constellation of the water. I remember looking up into the night’s sky and seeing a shooting star, dancing carelessly across the black, like flames searing through the universe. And in that moment, I flew, too.

Summer

The humdrum of the city glistens through the rain. Up ahead the traffic lights turn, and I swim across the road. I swear it’s colder here.

Even in an epicentre, surrounded by zipping cars, people, and pampered pooches on leads, my fingers feel numb. The trickles of dew slide off and under my yellow umbrella in a parade of liquid, and my hair starts to stick to my face and my shoes squelch over the pavement.

I should throw it away.

I mean, any hint of a breeze and it’s inside out subjecting me to the elements; yet, for some reason it makes me feel safe. It blocks my view of the towering concrete palaces and their glowing neon windows.

The wind picks up and I trip over a concrete slab and my face is near the floor and I don’t know how I got there. It’s so cold. Strangers kick water at me as their feet spin by, like a bunch of bicycles all flooding in the same direction.

My umbrella is nowhere to be seen.

Yellow engulfed in a tidal wave of grey. And my hair sticks to my face even more. I pick myself up and shuffle against the wall of a building to stop and breathe.         To stop.           And to breathe.

I think back to one month ago when fresh air filled my lungs, in a place where I stepped outside and saw the green of grass and not just the luminous green man telling me how to navigate the shark-infested fish tank where no one stops to help me up from the floor and the rain causes streams of black to run from my eyes.

I can’t go back.

I watch the greys of women’s high heeled shoes as they sidle gracefully down the granite catwalk and I can’t help but think of when we met and I was wearing that yellow dress. It was raining then, too. But we were inside, encased within a throng of people. You entered the room and I noticed you. Later, we found ourselves outside, water descending from the blue-purple sky into our beers and soaking our cigarettes, but it was refreshing, and we spoke about the things we had in common like we’d known each other for years. I’d known you an hour.

My mobile phone rings. I answer to an old friend that I’m meant to be meeting. I’m late and I tell her about my graze with the ground but she doesn’t sound interested. “This is your hometown, how can you get lost?” she asks. And of course this is my home. The green man stares expectantly at me as I anxiously approach the next road, my shoes drowning in stagnant puddles.

I think the rain’s getting heavier.

We had such a fun summer. That day we lay in the green meadow and you tickled my face with the long amber grass and I giggled. And the man in the red jacket walking his dog saw us and looked sternly at The Youths Fooling Around. We were fools. I was foolish.

I hang up the phone and wipe the water from the screen. I can’t possibly meet her like this. I know what she’ll be wearing – grey high heels and a black ensemble as if she’s going for a business lunch or a funeral somewhere. My friend, the skyscraper.

A shop doorway beckons and I stand underneath the fluorescent lights with strangers who also wear their hair like a helmet, plastered to their temples from the city floods.  No one looks at each other. We all stare straight ahead, hypnotised by the bouncing rain and the black minicabs sheltering the passengers in navy outfits.

I remember when you sheltered me.

We climbed inside the forest and ran between the openings of the great green ceiling where droplets squeezed through and threatened to brush our jackets. Our laughs echoed through the vast lavender evening and your hand fit mine just perfectly.

Now, my hand hangs limp as goose bumps march across my skin and I shiver like I’m shaking your memory out of me.

And then something catches my eye.

On the other side of the road I see my yellow umbrella floating along the bleak current into the black distance. I guess summer can never last.

The (Almost) Graduate

Today I went to a careers fair.  The bombshell has finally dropped that in a few short months I will be transitioning from a smug student, cushioned somewhat by my loan and extensive amounts of time off, into the realms of the real world. As I wandered around the circuit of potential employers, I found myself at a crossroads.

What should I “be”? The ultimate question that seeks to overwhelm and freak out the nervous graduate. After all, we’ve been preparing for this moment for most of our existence, through our GCSEs, A Levels and degrees, seeking out what to do for the ‘Rest of Our Lives.’ Though the prospect of a variety of career paths seemed particularly appealing to me while sifting through university prospectuses, faced with the reality of these multiple stepping stones, I feel nonplussed. It’s funny, I knew this day would come, yet it still took me surprise.

I remember my first week of university – pubs, clubs and a feeling of euphoria. This was the beginning of the rest of my life, or so society had told me. Yet, first year passed in a blur. Nights turned into mornings from hell which turned back into nights, and the progression continued. And then it was second year. I lived in a house with some of my best friends, and we argued over who hadn’t done their washing up, and struggled together in the face of deadlines. We tasted the fruits of Brighton’s nightlife, not as frequently as before, but still consistently.

Before I knew it I was in third year, studying abroad in the “Land of the Free”, in the rugged, eclectic terrain of the United States of America. In between trips to New York and Miami, I found myself chained to the library, latte (with an extra shot) in hand, tiptoeing through the silent section day after day after day. I was convinced I would crack but actually the immense workload focused me and flared my interest in what I was studying.

Even so, the euphoria of university was slowly subsiding. I always remembered people telling me to use my summers in an effective manner, to pursue internships or placements, but I never listened. I spent the summer of third year working at a coffee shop earning money to have a good time. While my friends floundered in the face of graduate life, I chuckled reveling in the fact I had one more year left.

Going into my fourth year at university studying American Studies and English I had many expectations. I anticipated drowning in an ocean of essays and literature, and mentally prepared myself for a year primarily devoid of human contact. Upon the commencement of my last summer of freedom I hugged my friends a little tighter than usual. Gone would be the raucous nights of debauchery and Aldi brand gin, replaced with glasses of Aldi brand red wine and maxing out my Netflix account when my nose wasn’t stuck in a novel.

Half of fourth year has passed in a blink of an eye. I think it’s easy for time to drift when I’m only in for 4 hours a week. That’s right, 4 hours. This lack of contact time has left me a little unresolved, unsure of what I’m meant to be doing with all my free time, and also more freaked out about what lies ahead – the flickering energy-efficient light bulb at the end of the tunnel.  That’s the thing about humanities degrees; it’s easy to feel aimless. Saying that, this year has been far more manageable than I ever could have expected, with frenetic periods surrounding essay deadlines, but overall still enough time to enjoy a gin and tonic.

Now here I am, peeking nervously at the different companies offering graduate schemes, volunteer work, and . . . careers.  This fair is the first of many events being put on by the university to help guide impending graduates into a self-achieved plan for the future.

Throughout the past few months I’ve watched my friends navigate their own post-university paths. Some have stayed, some have moved, and some have nestled themselves into a kind of limbo. I think the fact to embrace is that very few of us know what our ideal job is. And in an uncertain economic climate we must accept guidance where we can, begin contemplation early, and improvise. Bring on the exploration.

Denton, TX

The humidity licks my skin as I sip a Shiner beer on the scorched grass. Across the road coffee shops, candy meccas, a cinema and thrift stores shine from the incandescent lights blazing above my head. It’s 7pm and I’m drunk in Denton, Texas.

I’ve been in The Square for a few hours. Nestled into the hub of activity, inbetween Hickory and Oak Street, staring at the baroque-style county courthouse with awe. It was long drive from Houston through Dallas, with nothing on the radio but country music and nothing on the side of the road but churches and isolated x-rated video shops for the horny truck drivers looking for anonymity. Driving through the Lone Star state is kinda like any long journey; time and places start to blend as the concrete carries us on.

The Square acts as the pulsating heart of Denton’s aesthetic appeal. It feels nice here, like a mini version of the bohemian Bethlehem that is Austin. But it’s time to get this night into motion. We move on to Pascales, a drinking spot for hotshots, owned by Denton band Midlake. The place is ablaze with fancy cocktails among the humdrum of chess playing patrons, majestic bookshelves and quirky paintings. It’s ridiculously crowded so we stand against the walls, sipping our whiskey sours and mojitos, bobbing our heads to the soul soundtrack. We move downstairs to Andy’s Bar. There’s a band playing and the lead singer resembles Justin Vernon under the inexpensive stage lights, his creamy voice filling the dark corners of the establishment. It’s got a good atmosphere. Down a further set of stairs, we move to a cellar-like room. We find pool tables, Texas-shaped clocks, cheap drinks, and bar staff with horn-rimmed glasses and coiffed haircuts. Erin slips a dollar into the jukebox and R. Kelly’s ‘Bump N’ Grind’ bellows from the speakers to the collective headshake of the disgruntled drink pourers. It’s time to leave.

We head down to Fry Street where a string of drinking palaces glow invitingly, intermixed with late-night food joints for post-bars replenishing. Lucky Lou’s is our gateway. It’s a place where you can guzzle a $2 luminous green frozen margarita while watching intoxicated people play darts, pool, and throw beanbags. Leathered-up bikers and timid college students stand side by side shotting tequila below bicycles that hang precariously off the walls.

After Lou’s we head to the grimier end of the street. At Side Bar and Public House the drinks are dirt cheap and the dance floors are just plain dirty. It’s approaching closing time and a torrent of guys swim through the masses of patrons to find girls to grind with. I must say I find it a little intimidating. But then we leave. We head home to my friend’s house on the other side of the University of North Texas campus, floating through the mosquitoes and feral cats, and stumble into bed.

Now, it’s morning. After drinking coffee outside on the steps, and baking in the 100-plus-degree Texas sun, we head back to The Square to treat our growing hangovers. Another thing this town excels in is grub, whether it’s catering to the munchies of stoners or to those in want of sophisticated dinner dates. Yes, despite their blase aura, Denton-ites keep it classy in this aspect.

We drive through Denton as the local radio blasts songs of the 70s. Pops of colour sprout from inbetween bungalowed cafes, under bridges and on the side of coffee shops. Fledgeling artists hammer graffiti and murals onto the surfaces of this urban canvas. Inside Denton Donuts, a bakery near the square’s recycled books emporium, sat at a table decorated with newspapers, I order the “Red, White and Blue” doughnut. This may be because I wanna feel a little more patriotic for the states, or because Denton is starting to strike me as the perfect mix of Red and Blue politics. The white creamy centre, perhaps.

The day flies by as we head to Denton Thrift and sift through the racks of cheap, great clothes. Then, it’s on to Taco Cabana for happy hour margaritas and Mexican food. Everything is affordable here, and so it seems easy to do things to excess. The food, the alcohol, the drugs. It strikes me as a place that could act as a vacuum, allowing you to either have fun on the fringes or be sucked in. Maybe it’s good my stay is short. Once again, it’s 7pm and I’m drunk in Denton, Texas.

But it’s not all just watering holes and nacho bowls. Where else can you head to a house party and find yourself in the middle of a showcase of local music? In a dude’s converted garage, three bands from the area sing to the swarms of people. It’s unbearably humid inside, and you find yourself rubbing up with strangers in the sweat-soaked euphoria of arrogant drunkenness. You don’t understand what vibe the opening guy is going for with his experimental approach, making odd sounds and pausing halfway through his set to venture outside and get himself another beer. But you don’t care. With long dirty blonde hair sitting upon his bare torso, he epitomises the effortlessly hip attitudes of the Denton elite. Caught in a web of mason jars, marijuana and maki, Denton kids could be at home in the borough of Brooklyn.

Even the plethora of deadbeats, who get by on cruising couches and skipping rent, find sanctuary in Denton’s merging of arts. A cool aesthetic that extends from the majestic courthouse to back yard games of beer pong. It’s the college town where North Texans come to get creative. I know I’m left with a kind of inspirational residue from my time spent in Fort Worth County.

In the Rocky Horror Picture Show, during the song “Damnit Janet,” a sign stands behind the duo as they sing to each other. “Denton. The home of happiness.” And artistically, it’s true.