Yesterday I talked about ice cream carts and barbershops. That Chinese girl who cut my hair reminds me of my misspent childhood. Why she would tell me a story while she was giving me a budget trim is wildly above my rationale. She was so generous and welcoming, so polite and chatty and warm, I keep praying to a Higher Power of my understanding to let me share a dream with her, as, I feel, halving an allocation of my ambient rapid-eye slumber time is the only realistic way I’ll ever get to see her again. She is more than cordially wanted upon the 3D, multicolour, premium filament of my nightscape/mindscape/landscape. I pray she appears.
Until then, I often drive by the old enchanting neighbourhood where the
Barbershop Quartet used to be.
Don’t ask me why I call it a quartet. It just reminds me of something abundant
with musicality, which is of course the personification of language with
sounds. I almost feel prone to saying noises,
music is the personification of language with noises, but only trashy beats and dancy donks such as slash metal
and happy hardcore can be described as noisy. There’s a difference between a
sound and a noise. A slamming barn door in a gale force wind is a noise. The
scratchy scraping grate of glass on chalkboard is a disreputable noise. The exposure to children crying I would say is
more like a sound, although it can be very upsetting. Bawling babies I found
frankly disturbing.
I must say though, at this point, that when I watched King Kong fall off the skyscraper in the cinema some years back, I was surrounded by a theatre-full of preteens weeping. I was close to weeping myself, to be dreadfully honest. It was the saddest scene I have ever been involved in during my whole life. Seriously, dreary bleak funerals have nothing on it. This is why it is one of my favourite films, because of the emotional hook it had embedded verily deep within my sensitive, susceptible members. I was practically choked up with all the kiddies alongside me in that dark & spectral movie room. The poignantly forlorn melodrama, combined with the big time stage craft and heart-wrenching tragedy, has me unashamedly and unregrettably setting that experience aside as a historic life marker.
You know what life markers are. Not just births, deaths and marriages, but sentimental occasions specifically momentous to yourself. It might be a time when you needed a bag of frozen peas to soothe a swollen ankle, for example. They do say that there is nothing bigger than the little things. Another favourite life marker of mine is strolling around a city whilst holding hands with an African girl. I chatted her up in the public library (where I am now) and walked her home through the precincts of the metropolis. Her name was Dikonka. We didn’t kiss at the pinnacle of our touring together, something that I regret painfully. I wonder if she remembers me. We met just the once. The strange thing is, I didn’t really fancy her physically. I simply had a fixation on any and most girls of colour at the time. Meeting Dikonka landed centre-splat in the middle of writing my [Misery Memoirs], as a young man growing up in fearlessness with the full particulars of the written word. Typing wishy-washy prose about the relationship between myself and an estranged half-sibling I entitled the Twisted Sister Trilogy. Honestly man, it reeks of Kleenex and Prozac. Think of Mills & Boon meets Quentin Tarantino. Think depression, violence and sexual frustration. They’re currently available on Amazon Kindle. Banishment Pictures, Glimpses Gone, and Exploitation, all at discount prices. Their virtual shelf life is eternal, so I believe, so there’s no rush for you to get stuck in. One of them actually got refunded, is how badly they are written. BULLSH*T! They’re masterpieces. It’s just that one reader couldn’t get his fat head around the fact that someone out there is brave enough to write about a paedophile.
What was I rabbitting on about, was it the China Shop Barber Quartet? That place is now a Kebab shop. Instead of a beautiful lady from the Orient who entertained my notions of love and romance right up until this very day, instilling and filling me with a ferocious holy light which glimmers beyond my criminality and working-class status, adorning me with compassion and empathy far above any gangster label, I am now greeted by an ugly male version of a dinner lady who has no idea how to administer his very own salt and vinegar. He spits on my food, addresses me in Turkish, and probably keeps my former princess, along with Dikonka, caged up in his underground dungeon. Makes me wonder, what egg-sackly am I eating? Apparently, the establishment made the local press when an 18ct white gold engagement ring was shockingly discovered in one of his Shawarma marinaded meat wraps. The menu says shish and kofte. My eyes (not to mention my taste buds) say rat and pigeon. I reluctantly frequent his premises regularly, as the unruly rise of the foreign takeaway continues to demolish the very British institution of our homegrown chip shops. Indeed, do we have a single English chippie left standing?
# Singing aye aye yippie, ze Germans bombed our chippy #
I mostly upchuck the grub after consummation. Especially when I mix it with lager.
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