Wednesday, 11 November 2009
YOU
“YOU” the makeshift envelopes say. Every time. I’ve found 3 so far. I wonder how many I’ve missed. The last couple have been little brown paper bags, kind you’d maybe get with buying a postcard. The lip folded over, stapled shut. A stamp over it “YOU”, and this latest one the picture of a bird, a swallow or something. I think the last one had something, but can’t remember what. Each time I’ve found them its been in Mono – the vegan café bar, along the shelf with flyers and booklets, along that front edge between the Mono bar part and the Monorail record shop part. I had to push by the table football table, with its glass top, and its cigarette burns from years before. We sit at the table all night, the brown paper envelope sitting under the book I was reading before A arrived, with the others after him. When I get home, I tear it open, and it starts like all the other “Dear You”. It’s a letter, hand written, with scribbles, and scores, and spelling mistakes, just as it was intended, an A4 lined sheet of paper, torn out, and photocopied once done. Folded, a pile of them, and slipped into the bag. She talks about various things, though they are never signed, I am sure it is a she, just from the context. Before she talked about hitting a certain age, and where she and her friends were with their lives. Then about her zine, and how someone ripped off one of her texts without credit, and how upset she was by this. This one talks about how she does her zine, how important it is to her, even if it isn’t to anyone else. I wonder about her zine, since there is no evidence of a physical magazine, or a link to an electronic one. But then, it does offer the answer, this is the zine, these pieces of paper released into the world for random people to read, unsigned and uncredited. At one point, as I go back and forth to the bar, there is a girl at a table, sitting by herself, long light brown hair, writing, little bits of paper, piles of bits and pieces. I wonder, is that her? Writing her latest? But without a photocopier to mass produce them right now? I check for more after she has gone, but only that first one I already picked up still sits there. Its that kind of place though, people in corners, with laptops, with art pads, with books, people coming in alone, or in groups. The acoustics are funny in here, so you get fragments of conversations – the girl that has to take photos for her scrap book, and then explain beside them why she took the picture. Two guys talk about unsigned bands and demos, about a gig here and there, the grizzled words of veterans who have been there done that, on the small scale you understand. How are You? Where are You? I wonder.
Labels: bar, cafe, envelope, glasgow, mono, monorail, vegan, writing, you, zine
Thursday, 23 July 2009
Medicinal Encounters.
We are in the Black Medicine café place. C is waiting at the counter for our teas and coffees, when the stubble haired guy leans forward and starts talking to him. He is dressed in black, a thick black jumper, black jeans, black boots, chunky esoteric metal chains round his neck. His hair is shaven short, maybe a 2 gauge? He wears glasses with yellow frames. There is something feral in the way he speaks to C, I watch to see how the conversation develops. Nothing seems to come of it, and after the guy has left we discuss how he was just asking about C’s phone, but there was something edgey about his manner. As we had noticed for the rest of his stay. The furniture is made of stray pieces of wood, giving it all a rugged feel. We sit at a table, the girls G and L on one side, C and I on the other. He sits behind the girls; a shelf built into the back of their bench, his mug sitting there, while he is propped on a stool. A guy with a window seat brushes by on his way to the counter. From here the conversation is fragmentary, but the gist is that they he is growling in challenge – what the hell do you want? The other guy looks surprised, I’m just passing, if I brushed you I meant no harm. He looks barely satisfied with this response. Having ordered he tries to return to his seat, the growler looks at him in challenge. Then he stands up, faces off with the guy as though he is going to start something, then grudgingly steps aside. Another customer arrives, spots something on the growler’s shelf, engages him in conversation. Can I take that? You can try, but I’m finishing my coffee here. He reaches across the growler who is not cooperating, who is obstructing. The guy is easy natured, something of a chancer, he fails, then shrugs and turns back to the counter. The growler leans precariously, waving his arms with voluble gestures, his mouth snarling silent swear words and threats. We drink our teas and coffees, we catch up, we are all conscious of his seething presence, as he glares around looking for his next victim, before finally leaving after receiving a phone call.
Labels: cafe, coffee, edinburgh, growler, hostile, tea
Monday, 16 March 2009
Love Letter To The Wild.
Writer’s night. Though only a couple of us have turned up on this Thursday night, in this coffee house. We grab a table upstairs. Right at the top of the stairs, there are two guys in low slung chairs, which I guess look comfy. They are sprawled, arms reaching across the table to each other, holding hands.
The table we take is the only one which is big enough for four people, half way along the floor. At this end there are two other tables with people at them. Facing me, there is a table with two girls - one in a burgundy top, blonde hair, smart black trousers that are a little too tight when she stands. She has a soft face, makes her look like she is the younger of the two, though chances are they are of a similar age. The other girl, has a harder face, a more pronounced nose, darker hair, and is readily the more attractive of the two. She is wearing a taut white blouse, that strains against heavier breasts, even though its mostly unbuttoned, showing the black of the long sleeve top beneath. They’ve been here awhile, they’ve finished the tea and the cake that they bought, with Burgundy being a fidget, playing with the remains, when she isn’t playing with her phone. Black seems less interested, less engaged in the conversation, running her hand through her hair, pulling her cuffs over her fists, propping her chin on her hand.
In the corner, by the window, a man sits by himself. Hands propping up his head. He seems lost in thought, glancing out the window, staring into space. He has that “just out of work” look, jumper, with collar, shaven head. In front of him there is a large cup of coffee, looks like its mostly full, and a plate with an untouched slice of cake. Thoughts so deep that cake goes untouched, what thoughts! After a while, he pulls out a note pad, starts to write with determination. Tears the sheet off, leaves it sitting on table in front of him, it sits there for a while. Then he picks it up, hands beneath the table, he screws it into a ball, then you can hear the paper tearing.
Black says how she never goes dancing. Burgundy says they should, that perhaps they should take a class. Burgundy’s phone rings and she arranges to meet someone, at the Arches, beneath the station. She sits back and rubs her belly absently, conversation idle. Burgundy shows photos on her phone, then a badly recorded clip from some gig, where the sound distorts horribly. Black goes to the toilet. Then Burgundy takes her turn. They are winding up, looks like. But Burgundy stands, takes Black’s hand in hers, kisses her cheek, and leaves alone. Black watches her leave, watches her disappear into the street and round the corner.
Suddenly he takes a bite of the cake, after we’ve been here an hour. He is oblivious to everyone else, sitting in his corner, thinking. He doesn’t notice the girls, doesn’t notice Burgundy leave. Doesn’t notice when Black pulls out a notepad and pen. Her pad has a pink plastic, flowery cover, spiral bound side, pocket pad. Her pen has multiple colours, and she writes distractedly. He gets his pad out again, coincidentally, one of those reporter type pads, floppy, with spiral bound top. He just uses a black pen, and writes intently. He rips the page off, places it on the table, plonks the sugar shaker on top of it. She puts her note book away, pulls out a brochure, for some pharmaceutical company, flicks through it. He swigs the remains of his coffee, which must be at least two hours old. He places his car keys on the table, pulls his jacket on, with determination he doesn’t leave, he reaches for the paper, rest his hand on it, then forces himself. He stands, and exits.
She sees the empty table in the corner, with the window, and grabs her stuff and moves. She has the brochure ready to read, when she spots the sheet of paper. She starts to read the little she can see, then stops, bowing her head to read her stuff. Then she can’t resist, she picks up the sugar and reads the page, flips it over to read the other side. Holds it there, taking it in, absorbing it. Places it back down, puts the sugar back on top. She removes an application form from the brochure, folded in half, reads through it. She sits with her pen poised as though she is going to start filling it in, but decides to re-read it, make sure she has grasped the subtleties of the questions. Then she folds it, clearly bored, and unconvinced by the prospect. She shoves the brochure back in her bag, pulls on her jacket, and leaves.
Now that both tables are clear, I tell A about what they have been doing. And we both look at the sheet of paper sitting there. And we both look at each other. And we both look at the sheet of paper sitting there. He breaks first, gets up and wanders over to the table. Takes a quick look at the page, but doesn’t read it all. He comes back, it’s a love letter he says. The guy has written a love letter and left it on the table. Is it for one of the members of staff? That might make sense. Moments later, a couple come up the stairs. They spot the table in the corner, by the window, and she charges for it, her high heels clopping as she goes. Look, someone left a letter she declares instantly, and sits down to read it, how random is that she says on finishing. A pause, then, I’m going to hand this in, she gets back up, and clumps back down the stairs to hand the letter to the staff. We last a little longer in our writing, but leave soon after that. As we exit the building I glance back, and see that love letter to the wild, lying behind the counter, in captivity, perhaps gone unnoticed?
The table we take is the only one which is big enough for four people, half way along the floor. At this end there are two other tables with people at them. Facing me, there is a table with two girls - one in a burgundy top, blonde hair, smart black trousers that are a little too tight when she stands. She has a soft face, makes her look like she is the younger of the two, though chances are they are of a similar age. The other girl, has a harder face, a more pronounced nose, darker hair, and is readily the more attractive of the two. She is wearing a taut white blouse, that strains against heavier breasts, even though its mostly unbuttoned, showing the black of the long sleeve top beneath. They’ve been here awhile, they’ve finished the tea and the cake that they bought, with Burgundy being a fidget, playing with the remains, when she isn’t playing with her phone. Black seems less interested, less engaged in the conversation, running her hand through her hair, pulling her cuffs over her fists, propping her chin on her hand.
In the corner, by the window, a man sits by himself. Hands propping up his head. He seems lost in thought, glancing out the window, staring into space. He has that “just out of work” look, jumper, with collar, shaven head. In front of him there is a large cup of coffee, looks like its mostly full, and a plate with an untouched slice of cake. Thoughts so deep that cake goes untouched, what thoughts! After a while, he pulls out a note pad, starts to write with determination. Tears the sheet off, leaves it sitting on table in front of him, it sits there for a while. Then he picks it up, hands beneath the table, he screws it into a ball, then you can hear the paper tearing.
Black says how she never goes dancing. Burgundy says they should, that perhaps they should take a class. Burgundy’s phone rings and she arranges to meet someone, at the Arches, beneath the station. She sits back and rubs her belly absently, conversation idle. Burgundy shows photos on her phone, then a badly recorded clip from some gig, where the sound distorts horribly. Black goes to the toilet. Then Burgundy takes her turn. They are winding up, looks like. But Burgundy stands, takes Black’s hand in hers, kisses her cheek, and leaves alone. Black watches her leave, watches her disappear into the street and round the corner.
Suddenly he takes a bite of the cake, after we’ve been here an hour. He is oblivious to everyone else, sitting in his corner, thinking. He doesn’t notice the girls, doesn’t notice Burgundy leave. Doesn’t notice when Black pulls out a notepad and pen. Her pad has a pink plastic, flowery cover, spiral bound side, pocket pad. Her pen has multiple colours, and she writes distractedly. He gets his pad out again, coincidentally, one of those reporter type pads, floppy, with spiral bound top. He just uses a black pen, and writes intently. He rips the page off, places it on the table, plonks the sugar shaker on top of it. She puts her note book away, pulls out a brochure, for some pharmaceutical company, flicks through it. He swigs the remains of his coffee, which must be at least two hours old. He places his car keys on the table, pulls his jacket on, with determination he doesn’t leave, he reaches for the paper, rest his hand on it, then forces himself. He stands, and exits.
She sees the empty table in the corner, with the window, and grabs her stuff and moves. She has the brochure ready to read, when she spots the sheet of paper. She starts to read the little she can see, then stops, bowing her head to read her stuff. Then she can’t resist, she picks up the sugar and reads the page, flips it over to read the other side. Holds it there, taking it in, absorbing it. Places it back down, puts the sugar back on top. She removes an application form from the brochure, folded in half, reads through it. She sits with her pen poised as though she is going to start filling it in, but decides to re-read it, make sure she has grasped the subtleties of the questions. Then she folds it, clearly bored, and unconvinced by the prospect. She shoves the brochure back in her bag, pulls on her jacket, and leaves.
Now that both tables are clear, I tell A about what they have been doing. And we both look at the sheet of paper sitting there. And we both look at each other. And we both look at the sheet of paper sitting there. He breaks first, gets up and wanders over to the table. Takes a quick look at the page, but doesn’t read it all. He comes back, it’s a love letter he says. The guy has written a love letter and left it on the table. Is it for one of the members of staff? That might make sense. Moments later, a couple come up the stairs. They spot the table in the corner, by the window, and she charges for it, her high heels clopping as she goes. Look, someone left a letter she declares instantly, and sits down to read it, how random is that she says on finishing. A pause, then, I’m going to hand this in, she gets back up, and clumps back down the stairs to hand the letter to the staff. We last a little longer in our writing, but leave soon after that. As we exit the building I glance back, and see that love letter to the wild, lying behind the counter, in captivity, perhaps gone unnoticed?
Labels: cafe, cake, love letter, man, tea, wild, woman, writing
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