Loser Cruiser Blues
City-Watching Field Notes 14th - 23rd June 2023
Katherine Rundell, Super-Infinite:1 “The body is, in its essentials, a very, very slow one-man horror show: a slowly decaying piece of meatish fallibility in clothes, over the sensations of which we have very little control. [John] Donne looked at it, saw it, and did not blink. He walked straight at it: no explanation, justification, no cheerful sallies. There was just the clear-eyed acknowledgement of the precise anatomy and scale, the look and feel, the reality of ruin.
It was his superpower, that unflinching quality. It allowed him clarity of vision. He would, throughout his life, write to the very brink of his terror: ‘I have a sin of fear, that when I’ve spun / My last thread, I shall perish on the shore.’ But the same clarity would also allow him a fierce intensity with which to imagine himself: ‘I am a little world made cunningly / Of elements and an angelic sprite.”
A scruffy guy with a big beard who’s ridden the 29 down from Southgate to Newtown turns and addresses the passengers— hand raised in salutation— as he disembarks from the front door. “You all have a nice night! Nice riding with ya!”2
The man who’d sat behind him, both of them locked onto their phones for the whole journey down the hill, turns a surprised face to me. “What a nice guy!” he says. Then— “Nice hat!”3
He’s only just noticed it, I guess.
(I’d been watching Venus hanging huge in the Western sky, toying with metaphors for her. A diamond— unoriginal… The size of a hazelnut— dropped in a … Sewer? A dark, anaerobic bog?)4
Bus. Front seat of the top deck.
Wife to husband, sweetly, clinging to his arm: “Thank you for coming with me.” (Her hand on his sleeve, her wedding ring. He drops his big hand onto her knee.)
Sappy baby voice: ”It means I got to go with my favourite person in the whole world!”5
As I’m coughing into my elbow she says something under her breath to him about mask-wearing. I had bronchitis over two weeks ago, I guarantee I’m not contagious, I want to retort, but don’t. (I only just heard it, not enough to be sure.)
From the side, the muscles in his cheek flutter as he rhythmically clenches and unclenches his jaw. She’s wearing a mask, so all I can see of her are her manicured eyebrows and sensible ponytail.
When they get up— at Berhampore— their carrier bags gape: he’s carrying four bottles of wine, and she’s carrying (at least) two bottles of champagne.
I’m looking down from the window. As they stand at the lights waiting to cross he leans down and she leans up and they kiss on the lips: a kiss I’d characterise as a peck.
At Manners Street bus stop, there’s something on the ground in front of a bench. At first I think it’s a puddle of puke, but it’s too three-dimensional. Then coming closer I think it’s a pile of yellow leaves. (Plane, gingko?) Finally I see it’s an entire bag of potato chips emptied onto the ground.
Passers-by offer commentary.
One young person to another: “Free nibbles?”6
A wag to his family: “So many places to eat around here!”
A homeless guy, to me: “Lots of chips!”
Me: “Yeah! A whole bag, I reckon!”
Him, merrily, over his shoulder: “Waste of food, eh!”
Homeless man in a doorway on Willis Street yells out a Withnail quote: “[X] fucks arses!”
(Most likely though, it’s pure coincidence— convergent filth-evolution.)
Two young Irish guys ride the bus from Ōwhiro Bay. By their sweat and their relieved demeanour I guess they’ve just returned from walking to Red Rocks and back. One reads the passing building aloud: “Victoria University Coastal Ecology Laboratory.”
They discuss whether or not a Marine Biology degree would mean learning to dive.
Anyway, says the other one, he could never be a Marine biologist. No? Why not?
”Cos Oi’m scaired o’ fookin jellyfish, loike!”
From the chapter ‘Brother to a Dead Man.’
Spreading good vibes is a powerful act. It used to happen more pre-Pandemic, before everyone was so rinsed and cranky.
My wizard hat: a Spanish riding hat with a kāhu / hawk feather.
That made me think of mudlarking. Or a treasure dream.
The thing is, with metaphors, mostly first thought = best thought, but not always. Cliche should be avoided like the Plague. (See what I did there?) Therefore, nothing should be compared to a diamond— or other gemstone for that matter— ever again.
Cringe level off the charts: intolerable even to overhear.
Makes me snort-laugh.