at M J M

Receptionist: Mosquito City University. Engineering Faculty.
Journalist: Hello. My name is Mark is Mark White. I am a journalist for the Mosquito City Herald and I am working on a story about the hydrogen engine. I was wondering if there was somebody there who I could come along and talk to about that?
Receptionist: Nobody is here right now. But if you come in tomorrow Professor Trafalgar should be here.
Journalist: Ok. Thanks very much. Where should I go to find him?
Receptionist: Oh just go straight to the HEF.
Journalist: HEF? What does that stand for?
Receptionist: Hydrogen Engine Facility.
Journalist: Ok. Well. Ok so I will go along there tomorrow afternoon and find Professor Trafalgar at the Hydrogen Engine Facility.
Receptionist: Yeah. Somebody will take care of you over there.
Journalist: Ok. Thanks very much for your help.
Receptionist: You are welcome. Goodbye.
Journalist: Bye.
Receptionist: Take it easy.

at MorBCN

(the sound of a child crying out)

Father: What did you say?
Child: (???)
Father: What does that mean?… Can you hear the boat?
Daughter: Yes. (hesitantly)
Father: I can hear the boat too.
Daughter: It is like an aeroplane.
Father: Yes. It sounds like an aeroplane. It is an engine. It sounds a bit like a helicopter, doesn’t it?
Daughter: What about “aeroplane”?
Father: Or an aeroplane. A helicopter or an aeroplane. It sounds a bit like a helicopter or an aeroplane, but it’s a boat. Can you see it? Go and have a look. Can you see it?

(the sound of a sneeze)

Father: Did you sneeze?… Can you see it?
Daughter: I want to go and play in the water.
Father: Now?
Daughter: Yes.
Father: Ok. Let’s go and play in the water.
(unintelligible childish sound)
Father: Shall we go now? Shall we go and play in the water now?
Daughter: Yes.
Father: Let’s go.

I

I speak English.

I speak Malay.

Do you speak Malay?

I speak a little Malay.

Does he speak Malay?

No, he does not.

Thank you very much.

You are welcome.

at freeparking

The Ballad of Hapgood J Thoroughgood and Wendell P Boyd.

a poor young African American woman
of unfortunate circumstances
died in childbirth
but her identical twin sons survived
although they were both born completely
perfectly
beautifully
blue.

the two blue boys were adopted out
and one of them was raised by a rich family
where he was instructed in all the muse-ic arts
and became a banjo player,
while the other hapless soul
was used, misused, sexually abused
and exploited,
choked half to death
by the high wires
of his own heart
and came out at the other end
of childhood
as a liar
and a robber
and a poker player.

now the beautiful blue banjo player
fell in with a Baton Rouge portrait artist
who composed, or perhaps the word is channeled
huge canvasses of feminine landscapes
with Rockie mounted breasts and buttocks
and Arid-zoned sparse blue skies
peering down on deep hidden Virginic canyons
that concealed lush foliage and running water.
while the sun shone overhead
and squirted breast-milk into the sky.

but the wayward blue banjo-less bastard had a hollowed-out shoe
where he kept cocaine wrapped in cellophane
and a ratty old musical instrument case
that he stole
from a dead man
in a car
and kept only to conceal
his double guns
and a pack of marked cards;
the tools of the trade he needed to ply
if he wanted to stay high.

and by a quirk of fate if you think Providence makes mistakes
or perhaps by design
if you see in the creation a plan or discernible meaningful narrative line.
the blue banjo player and the gambling thief
with faces like Krishna
and lives like two ply twine ripped asunder
walked across the same hot baked pavement
on the same southern afternoon
and time like a curly piece of rope
that ripped apart screams to be once more entwined
placed them next to each other like a thunderclap
though no light illumined their eyes
and they walked back to back across the same street
without seeing each other
and the glimpse they never caught was like seventeen wasted years
and the darkness of their ignorance of the other’s existence was like a million days and nights of held back orphaned tears

(howl in wolf’s voice) pain pain pain

(bark like a dog) loss loss loss loss

oh where is the river that will join cleaved souls ?
and wash their hearts and and fill in the holes
and end the suffering of two wee blue boys
named Hapgood J Thoroughgood and Wendell P Boyd

yes two blue brothers
born of the same mother
walked past each other
but in a tunnel
and no light shone
on the face
of the five stringed one
and no sound came
from the case
of the two gunned bum

and the banjo player
disappeared up an alley
jumped the fence
and climbed the fire escape
where SHE
hid a key
to let him do
his thing
in her STUDIO

while the broken hearted thief
stood on a corner in the sun
holding a banjo case
that contained two guns
and people looked out
from among the crowd
at the face that was blue
yet somehow white
as a shroud

yes all the people watched
the blue man go by
and no one knew
that his musical instrument case
was a disguise
and the banjo players lover
who painted earth portraits
came out of a bus
that stopped at the corner
and saw who she thought
was her man as he stood
on the street
where his brothers
from another ‘hood
had arranged to meet
the man with two guns
and rob some place cheap
for some trifling sum

and she smiled
as she walked
to the man
who she chose
to loosen her robes
and take off her clothes
and she remembered his smile
and the sound of his pick
as it plucked and it strummed
on the strings that it hit
and she shone like a flame
and she grew like a fire
as her heart saw the face
of this blue faced plier (player)

and mistakenly roused
she kissed the strange face
but the man with two guns
in a banjo case
swung that box hard
and collected her head
making two red scratch marks
on the side of her face
and a bruise that grew yellow
on the side of her head

the woman went down
and the man walked off
and a car pulled up
and the robber got in
and they drove him off
to the place
where they stayed
and discussed the details
of a deal they had made

and that afternoon
at around half past four
three hoods with two guns
in a case
and a Ford
held up a bar
and stole the proceeds

and the brother with a face
that was blue
and a scar on the heart too great to conceal
like a fool lost his cool

and fired his guns at the living and dead
till no one was moving and the walls were blood red
and parts of the customers some ear-rings, a nose
a plastic bottle and a piece of garden hose
lay floating like fruit punch in a bowl at new year
a macabre champagne of blood and of beer

twelve lost souls on an afternoon
some unemployed and some on the run
were taken in passion by a man in the night
and one old woman
who died of fright

bad blue boy
thinks his gun is a toy
and the cowl that he wore on his blue colored head
was as white
as the sheets that cover your bed
and the scowl on his lip and the scar on his heart
were connected like fire and an anvil at night
and the iron he beat
and the hammer he raised
were himself and his past
as he tried to be free
and the pain that he caused;
mistakes that he made
were made known to his self
by a voice in his sleep
and the voice spoke of grace
of grace and a creed
of a time and a place
to be saved; to be freed
yes liberty as freedom
from pain and from chains
that bind men to things
to mistakes and to shame
liberty freedom
salvation and grace
these were the things
the blue boy would face

MEANWHILE

But the brother with the banjo
sat meanwhile in a room
and strummed and slid
and picked out a tune
and sang of his love
for the woman with paint
the woman he had met
on the upper Haight
she who carried him east
and south to these walls
of sea and of color
and of insights that scald

in arizona
beneath a burning sun
in mexican sand
with a horse and a gun
in a bovine desert
where the hamburgers lie
and texans speak Spanish
beneath a burning sky
he saw the marriage
of earth and art
understood history and freedom
and all that they are
and areas unknown and areas seen
were conjoined in the land
of a unified dream
and the blue man said “you”
to the woman
“and I
will walk this earth
and we will be
as adam and eve
on an endless sea
of time and life
which are not magazines
but direct transmissions
of all gods mad dreams”

and the woman replied
with a gallon of color
that she sprayed on the side
of the car that they’d hired
and painted a word
that no-one had heard
in that part of the world
for quite a while

“free” as the breeze that blows through the trees
“free” as the wind that dances with leaves
“free” as the fire that burns in your heart
“free” as desire that drives you to art

art is the language that we use when we speak
not for profit or purpose but to get something out
and the person who listens; the person who hears
is not of this world and its physical spheres
the whole thing is mental, internal, beyond
and the one who listens is god by the pond

so whisper and shout and get that thought out
express it, inscribe it on walls which have ears
celebrate all the things that there are
and dream and create as you drive in your car

the living land is a living song
and the water that nourishes
is tuning the keys
of an epic; a symphony; a piano; a sea
a living poem called geography

let me out let me out
said the thought in the mind
let me paint for the sighted
and sing for the blind
give me form and dimension
duration and space
write me loud in red
on some place
I’ll be read
yes, let me out let me out
said the song in the heart
play me loud
play me strong
let me live in your art

and the picker played
and the painter sang
and they sculpted and painted their car
which was a van
(a kind of a mini bus)
and they drove through the south to the river mouth
where a city of souls which spoke a French creole
welcomed them with work and grants and arms
that enveloped their chests and hearts and art
(and also of course shook their hands)

the woman got a studio
which was a place where she could go
and fill her canvasses with mountains and valleys
and fields to sow and the banjo player
who she called Joe
played on the corner
and in the park
and sometimes in bars
if he could get a gig

and their life was happy and their hearts were free
and their prospects and future glowed forth like a dream
till that twin blue brother on the corner one day
was mistaken for his double
by the woman with paint
and she arrived in the studio
with an angry gait
and shouted and screamed
and drove Hapgood out.

and he crossed the city
inhabited bars
sang songs of loneliness
passed out on a car
went back to the bar
and sat for a while
till the cops
with video footage
from the scene
where the crime of the twin blue brother
had recently been
committed with an action
so off-hand and cool
as if man in his root
was made for this task
to wield a gun
and call it a tool
and kill his brothers
with no second thought
and escape in a car
that someone had bought
or stolen one night
from a street by a park
not noticing paint
spattered there in the dark

the same car was used
irony and god

and the banjo player
mistakenly caught
taken from public
by men in a van
and handcuffed and questioned
and locked in a cell

and tried and found
with no artist in sight
guilty of murder and
breaking the law
for the alibi
that could have made a lie
of the video
the security camera made
was in the person of the artist
in her studio
and she was withdrawn
in a self built shell
disappointed and filled
with hatred as well

she thought her own true lover blue
had struck her face and
hurt others as well
and wouldn’t come forth
to the trial they held
in her heart now
the victims were equally dead.
and her liver opened a bar
with the bile that ran from
the kidney to the spleen
and a broken heart
and a broken dream
drank whisky and beer
in a body that had been
a temple of love
and thought and art
a temple of the living divine human heart

and broken and busted unable to paint
her world was a hell now
tubes of dried up acrylic paint
and broken old garbage
and parts of some sculptures
tangled and melted and covered in butter
were used on the pyre at the place where her heart
was burned at the stake and ended her art

a funeral pyre for a child with an eye
that saw the face of heaven and hell

END OF PART ONE

You can find out more about the story of The Banjo Player’s Brother here.

at Etrusia UK

Londoner: The words they use might change. Certainly. Vocab would definitely change.
Australian: Yeah. Yeah. That’s interesting. because I have a friend from London and I can’t understand half of what he says. Just the words… the slang. It’s so…
Londoner: You see my accent has been described as “home counties”…
Australian: Mm.
Londoner: … and if I had of stayed in London or where I was and not got a professional job, I would have had a very very coarse London accent. You might have the same problem understanding me.
Australian: Mm.
Londoner: But I came from those roots but my accent has improved through college and stuff like that so I speak probably clearer than a proper Londoner or cockney.
Australian: Mm.
Londoner: I am almost a cockney.
Australian: I get called a cockney.
Londoner: I was born not that far from Bow Bells but….
Australian: When I lived in London I had been there for twenty-four hours and people thought I was a Londoner ..maybe my accent..like the Aussie accent and the London accent are not that different.
Londoner: There are a lot of similarities . Yeah.
Australian: And I mean you know I remember being in…I was working in Sainsbury’s and this guy come up and he said “oh I thought you were a cockney like me” and you know I can put it on like you know what I mean like …
Londoner: Yeah.
Australian: You can kind of talk like this. I can’t do it at the moment. You get in to a roll …Have a beer and that. You know? Lets try something. Like. I will say one thing and you say exactly the same thing: Where are you from?
Londoner: Where are you from?
Australian: I am from London.
Londoner: I am from London.
Australian: What part of London?
Londoner: What part of London?
Australian: The north.
Londoner: The north.
Australian: The south.
Londoner: The south.
Australian: The east .
Londoner: The east.
Australian: The west.
Londoner: The west.
Australian: North-west London
Londoner: North-west London.
Australian: Where’s Wembley?
Londoner: Where’s Wembley?
Australian: It’s is in north-west London.
Londoner: It’s is in north-west London.
Australian: Where’s Wimbledon?
Londoner: Where’s Wimbledon?
Australian: It’s in south-west London.
Londoner: It’s in south-west London.
Australian: Is that right?
Londoner: Is that right?
Australian: Is that right ?
Londoner: Is that right?

My name is Mark.

What is your name?

My name is Ricardo.

What is his name?

His name is Maxim.

What is her name?

Her name is Winnie.

Where is she from?

She is from Taiwan.

Where are you from?

I am from from Australia?

Where are you from?

I am from Brazil.

Where in Brazil?

I come from Curiciba.

Thank you very much.

See you later.

at Starr Gazr

Father: Come and sit on my lap. Ok so once a upon a time there was a…
Little Girl: About this…
Father: There was little girl and she came up the stairs with her yellow laptop and she sat on her daddy’s lap and she put her laptop on her lap. But it wasn’t really a laptop. It was a book. Her laptop was a book. And she opened it up
(the sound of a passing tractor)
And the first page said the words “dining room”. And on that page there were the words “dinner set” and there was a picture of a dinner set. And on the next page there was the word “chairs”
(the sound of a passing car)
And there were two chairs and then there was a picture of a table and there was the word”table” How many chairs can you see?
Little Girl: Ten. One two three four five six seven eight nine ten.
Father: Ten chairs. And how many tables can you see?
Little Girl: One.
Father: One table? Ok would you like to turn the page?
(a pause while the page is being turned)
Father: Now on the top of the next page you can see the word “kitchen” k-i-t-c-h-e-n. And there is a picture of a toaster and there are two pieces of toast sticking out of the toaster and there is the word “toaster” and at the bottom of the page I can see four pots and pans. And…
Little Girl: I want to ..I will count them. One two three four five six seven eight…
Father: Mm.
Little Girl: …nine ten.
Father: Ten pots with lids on them.
Little Girl: One two…
Father: One.
Little Girl: One two three four five six seven eight…
Father: Eight pots and pans..
Little Girl: Nine.
Father: That is nine. And this one is different. The handle is different.
Little Girl: One two three four five six seven eight nine.
Father: These pots have two handles but this pot has only one handle.
Little Girl: One two three four five six seven ..One two three four ..
Father and Daughter (together): One two three four five six seven eight nine.
Father: And this is a kettle. This is a picture of a kettle and here is the word “kettle” k-e-t-t-l-e. Look at the kettle. Here is the handle. Here is the spout. And now the next page and you can see the words “living room”. And there is a book shelf with lots of different books. It is picture of a book shelf. And there is the word “bookshelf”. B-o-o-k-s-h-e-l-f. Bookshelf. And underneath there are lots of sofas. I can see a picture of some sofas.How many sofas can you see?
Little Girl: One two three four five six seven eight nine.
Father: Ah that is a pillow. I think that is a pillow. You are counting the sofa and the pillow but I think that is pillow. I would say: “One two three four five six.” Six sofas.
Little Girl: One two three four five six…
(the sound of a passing motorcycle)
Father: Seven. There is a big one. There is a big one. What’s the difference between this sofa and this sofa?
Little Girl: No.
Father: What’s the difference? Do you know? Look. Look at this one look at the big one. This one is bigger than that one, isn’t it? This one is smaller than this one. And look at the pillows. What is the difference between this one and this one? Look at the pillows. What is the difference?
Little Girl: Sofa.
Father: Hm?
Little Girl: Sofa.
Father: This one has two pillows but this one has only one pillow, doesn’t it?
Little Girl: (???)
Father: How many pillows can you see here?
Little Girl: Two.
Father: And how many pillows can you see here?
Little Girl: One.
Father: Ah so these two sofas are different. This one has one pillow but this one has two pillows.
Little Girl: (???)
Father: We forgot the fireplace. The fireplace is the place where the fire is. It is safe. Fire is dangerous but the fireplace is safe. It is a safe place to put fire. The house will not burn down. I am turning the page now. And what is that word? Do you know?
Little Girl: Mirror.
Father: No. That word is “mirror”. This word is “bedroom”.
Little Girl: “Bedroom”.
Father: Right. And can you see the mirror?
Little Girl: Here.
Father: And is it a magic mirror?
Little Girl: Yes.
Father: And what do you say when you look in the mirror? In the magic mirror?
Little Girl: I don’t know.
Father: Mirror on the wall. Who is the most beautiful woman of all?
Mirror mirror in my hand. Who is the most beautiful woman in the land?
Mirror mirror on the table. Who is the most beautiful woman in this fable?

I

I speak Arabic

You

Do you speak Arabic?

I speak a little Arabic.

I speak Arabic.

You speak Arabic.

He speaks Arabic.

Where are you from?

Where are you from?

One more time.

Where are you from?

I am from Oman.

Where is he from?

He is from Saudi Arabia.

We don’t say Saudi Arabia. We say “Saudi”

Hello.

Do you speak Arabic?

I speak a little.

Where are you from?

I am from Saudi.

Where is he from?

He is from Australia.

Does he speak Arabic?

He speaks a little.

Where is he from?

He is from Mexico.

Does he speak Arabic?

No, he doesn’t.

He doesn’t speak Arabic.

He speaks Spanish.

He speaks Spanish and English.

Thank you very much.

Bye-bye.

You are a man on a train on a journey from Hell to Heaven but nowhere around you can you see the tracks, the carriage, the other passengers or the window, let alone the view from the window.

There is no awareness in you of the linear progression that your life follows.

So you pick up a novel and read of another man on another train and yet on the same journey and you realize then that you are a traveler too. You awaken.

This is the effect that a novel; a good novel, has on me.”

Kensaku in Shiga Naoya’s “Dark Night Passing”

at ichic

A Romantic Young Man in Japan

The plane flew into Osaka at the end of winter. He was nervous at immigration, as always, worrying that they would not let him in. He was entering on a tourist visa.

He intended to work but if he told them this then he would be refused entry. The system required that he pretend to be a tourist when he entered then he could find a job and sign a contract. With that contract in hand he would then leave the country and apply for a work visa from outside, on the basis of the job he then had, and finally a couple of months later he would be allowed to enter with the status that he had originally sought. It was a terrific waste of time but it was the only way. He had done it before.

It was already March but winter still lingered and the air outside the airport was bracing. Happily the bus came after a few minutes and he stowed his bag underneath then sank into the warmth of his seat as the bus carried him down the Meishin Expressway to Kyoto.

When he got to Kyoto Station, Ken humped his bag through the tunnel to the north end of the station then took another bus up Kawaramachi-dori and got off just before the Marutamachi corner. He found Uno House in the alley where he had remembered it.

He had stayed there when he first came to Japan seven years ago and he reflected now on what he had heard about how one’s cells were all replaced after a seven-year period, except brain cells. If it were true, then here he was, escaped from Australia again with a fresh body and ready for another stint in this city of temples and foreigners and mist.

If it were true. But it was not, he decided. He was not a new person. He was the same old Ken Saville, only now he was just a little older and a little more tired.

He spent the first few days visiting old haunts and sitting in those coffee shops and bars that he had frequented during his last stay in the old capitol. Many of the people he knew were still in town and he would read the papers by day looking for a job and studying the news, and then at night he would go out to the Pig and Whistle and lean on the bar, waiting for his old friends to turn up. Some had left. Some had left and come back. Some had married. Some had separated or divorced. Slowly he caught up on what had happened in the two and a half years that he had been away.

He was not keeping a diary at this stage. After he had left Indo-China and wandered back to Australia, his desire to record what was going on around him had waned and he had soon become submerged in the trivial day-to-day search for survival. Now that he was back in the city he loved so much, there was enough of interest going on around him that he felt moved to scribble things down in a notebook but he was not sure where to begin something longer like a diary or a story. He felt himself to be drifting and he struggled to anchor himself to something because he had been drifting for a long time and it had ceased to be pleasant.

On a Monday several days after he arrived, he walked up the river to Demachiyanagi and caught the Eizan line through Moto-Tanaka past the abattoir at Chayama and Ichijoji then on to Shugakuin at the north east end of the city. There was a cafe called Speak Easy, which had been a major hangout in the old days and he remembered the cheap well-cooked bacon and eggs, the free coffee refills and English newspapers and the chance of an interesting conversation with some passing foreigner.

Monday was the day when English teaching jobs were advertised in the Japan Times and April was the month when new terms and new contracts started. He was in the right place at the right time.
He flipped through the classifieds while he ate but most of the jobs were in Tokyo. There was hardly anything in the Kansai area and what was there was teaching little kids.

Ken wanted to teach English conversation to adults. The thought of going through the alphabet “A is for apple, B is for banana, C is for cat” every day with little kids struck him as more like baby-sitting than teaching English. But there was nothing else. That was it then. He would have to wait a whole week for the next paper, hoping that there would be something for him in that one.

Resignedly he closed the paper and gazed out the window. A stocky looking American entered. Ken knew him from before but had forgotten his name. They nodded to each other.

“You were here before weren’t you?” said the American, sliding onto the bench at the table next to Ken.

“Yeah” said Ken. “I’ve been out for a couple of years. I just got back a few days ago. I’m looking for work. Do you know of anything?”

You can practise reading. Read the story of a “Romantic Young Man in Japan”

at striatic

Mark: Ok. So here I am. I am on the golf course at Mosquito City. I have got the ocean on one side and the jungle on the other. I have just had a game of golf.
Peter: That was a great game , Mark.
Mark: That was a great game. Peter. Yeah.
Peter: Wonderful.
Mark: I have just had a game of golf with Peter Bestluck, the richest man in Mosquito City, who is also a rhino lover and the man who funded the Mosquito City Rhino Park, part of the international effort to save the rhino. And Peter, I am going to put you on the spot here. I am going to ask you a difficult question.
Peter: Ok. Fire ahead.
Mark: You told me last week that you…yesterday… not last week… yesterday… that you had purchased a fleet of new jet liners for the Mosquito City Airline Company, which you have just purchased.
Peter: You have your facts right.
Mark: And you are going to enlarge the airport…
Peter: That is right.
Mark: You are going to expand the airport facilities if you can get government funding.
Peter: We will get government funding. In fact I fund…
Mark: Government approval.
Peter: Oh government approval. Oh. Yes.
Mark: Now what I am going to ask you about is the environmental question. Now in this day of climate change, global warming, it is fairly generally accepted that burning fossil fuels causes global warming, pollution and it is changing our environment. How do you feel about that problem?
Peter: Everything in Mosquito City and the surroundings is run on clean power.
Mark: Really?
Peter: Yep. That is right. Hydrogen-powered.
Mark: Hydrogen-powered?
Peter: Yeah. So. Yeah. Right. We considered this a long time ago and … well… we didn’t have to introduce anything. It was already here. That kind of mentality.
Mark: Right. So you…you … you are expanding the airline and you (have) bought a whole new fleet of jets but you are not causing pollution
Peter: That is correct.
Mark: Your carbon footprint is almost nothing.
Peter: Absolutely.
Mark: Wow! … Wow! That is a clean system.
Peter: A very clean system.