A riproaring rollercoaster of a journey through time, space and that side road just over there...

The Walker

Written by:Chris of Arabia
Published on November 8th, 2009 @ 23:49:29 , using 735 words,

Stepping out through the front door,
The Walker emerges into the glare of sodium street lights.
Turning right, he heads for the outer wall,
where his pre-determined and sterile route awaits.

Clad in a garb of hooded top and jogging bottoms,
he struggles to free the headphone cable
that has become caught in his iPod case
and repeatedly dislodges the in-ear speaker as he moves.

At the wall he veers left to hit the walkway there.
With measured precision, the poured concrete slabs
guide the way out into to night, temperature lowered
by the clear late autumn skies above his head.

As his pace picks up, The Walker feels his last meal
rise from his stomach, burning its way into his oesophagus,
the bitter acidic taste of chilli and tomato reminding
him of older more serious discomfort, but not tonight, not tonight

The rhythm of The Walkers' stride settle to the beat
of the iPods' output; random play serving out tunes unknown
and leaving behind those to be instantly forgotten.
Roger Sanchez sets the tone for the next 6 minutes

Please enter your password:
Good morning Mr Sanchez
You have accessed your computabank
please select the track you wish to hear now...

With electronic precision, The Walker counts his way
past the monotonous regularity of the 2 meter slabs
wall right and dark, houses left and anonymous. The slabs
blur, the numbers blur, The Walker moves ever ahead.

Remembering events of the day, a wry grimace crosses his face
Insignificant victories scored, minor humiliations endured
"We'll have you next time, you bastard" he thinks
"your days are numbered...". The pace increases a touch

Ahead, two figures appear,
ghost like beneath the toxic orange light.
The first with a familiar outline, the second unknown
Heading towards him, his co-conspirators gain detail

Convinced, as he is, of the first's identity,
he raises a hand in friendly salute of a shared task.
The first looks mildly phased by the greeting, but
returns the wave. Not who The Walker thought it was...

Not wishing to repeat the same mistake, The Walker heads
towards the second impassively. As they pass, a glint
of puzzlement crosses the second's expression at the blank
stare. The wife of a work colleague passes to one side...

Reaching the halfway point, The Walker feels the prickle
of overheated skin on his back, the evening no longer cool,
but instead temperature rising uncomfortable, heat trapped against
his torso, the hoodie now an unnecessary burden to comfort.

Heading past a street light, The Walker sees his shadow extend
in front of him, fading all the while as the next is approached
knowing as he does that a shadow unseen shrinks and deepens on the
ground behind his back. The Sweetest Perfection keeps time...

Takes me completely
Touches so sweetly
Reaches so deeply
Nothing can stop me

Clip, clip, clip raps his ankle, stooping in recognition,
The Walker stoops to re-tie a loosened lace, and once more
he feels the burn rise above his stomach, sensation unwelcome,
unwanted and uncomfortable. No stopping now the race not yet run.

Passing the field, he feels the fine mist dispensed in darkness,
smells its past life, must trust the plant did its job. The path
now fully dark, trusting to where he knows it follows, aim for the
bright spot ahead, no oncoming train this one...

Into the open and the brightness again, road crossed and safe
from its users, The Walker passes by the supermarket loading
bay. A hive of industry by day, but not now. Dead to the sleeping
world, a new dawn awaits ahead, events to unfold

Taking the extra loop, urged on at the iPod's request,
The Walker cuts right out of sight of tarmac and into
the corridor, the bushes encroaching from either side
providing a claustrophobic cover for those who desire it.

Escaping the gap, bland and unremarkable dwellings feeding
away left of him, The Walker recalls names, names of the day,
names of toil, names of weight and import, never forgotten.
But not here, not now, not at night - "That's mine"

Turning towards home, exercise drawing to a close,
The Walker eases down slower, nearly done till another
day. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not the day after, but soon
With the door in sight, a Friend of a Friend takes The Walker home...

When he plays
No-one speaks
No-one speaks
When he plays
No-one speaks

With All Apologies

Written by:Chris of Arabia
Published on November 7th, 2009 @ 23:40:34 , using 137 words,

There will unfortunately be no blog post this evening, as the proprietor of the site has been much too all consumed with band practice. This has been both a bad thing and a good thing; bad in the sense that I didn't know all my parts, and good in the sense that I wasn't the only one. You may rest assured though that bogging will returning to the place known as Izdihar very shortly, possibly as soon as tomorrow, assuming that I can come up with the semblance of something to amuse and delight you all with.

In the mean time, I will finish by offering my congratulations to Petite Anglaise and family on the arrival of Jack who weighed in at 3.75 Kg, very recently (not a clue exactly when, but I'm sure she'll update us shortly).

Conversationally Speaking...

Written by:Chris of Arabia
Published on November 6th, 2009 @ 15:44:00 , using 85 words,
Posted in General

Bathroom Interuptus

Male: Have you finished in the bathroom?

Female Significant Other: Yes I have but Donkey has gone in there now, so you'll have to wait...

M: Oh! He's not washing his mane again is he?

FSO: Yes, and he's filing his hooves too...

M: I hope to God he's not having a shit; I'm not sure the bowl is big enough...

Disclaimer: This events portrayed in this blog post are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to persons alive or dead, or their conversations is purely coincidental

In My Time of Dying...

Written by:Chris of Arabia
Published on November 5th, 2009 @ 23:25:00 , using 7 words,

Well it tickled me...

Written by:Chris of Arabia
Published on November 5th, 2009 @ 19:54:35 , using 10 words,
Posted in General

Link: http://www.lukesurl.com/archives/1070

Another in my exceptionally infrequent series of things from elsewhere...

I think we have a mole...

Peeling an Orange Through a Letterbox

Written by:Chris of Arabia
Published on November 4th, 2009 @ 21:47:22 , using 109 words,
Posted in Blogosphere antics

To be honest this is much how it feels when trying to blog using an iPhone. It's very early days of course and the whole process is eminently feasible, but I'm not sure I'd want to do it like this all the time. I'm instantly reminded of the early days of me learning my way around a keyboard well enough to navigate with two or more fingers. To be fair, the b2evolution admin skin was never designed for this sort of abuse. Perhaps I should try to remember that it's not a matter of how well it can be done, more that it can be done at all.

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