.il cafe corto.

il cafe corto. the espresso was short; bitter and strong. it served quickly, thrown onto the bar, clinking cup and saucer. the barista in peak of morning routine. a daily rapid fire of thick and dark shots craved by the workers. il tren, il cafe, il lavoro. all the days. all jostling at a bar uninviting pause. space sought by the few advanced in track for a post allowing a second’s serenity. though already he had it. and he'd already intended to slow and savour: today was different. he slowed and savoured. as coat, scarf, buon giorno, un cafe, un euro, grazie, ciao, scarf, coat continued around. only he and the greyed barista, one he had never met yet an amico grande, good friend, ever-present. it was strange, somehow new, and he felt foreign and irresolute. unsure as to why he usually was but a minute cog in the queer contraption he was observing. he watched, with equal unsureness, the faux friend at the helm. at the helm yet not master. as caught up as all. he considered on the peripheral contented. today unrestricted, unconstrained; unafflicted by immediate burden but not without time and not without plan - and never a master. the million noises and random dialogues patterned and were entrancing. after a while thought and mind only he attended. he wandered as the systemic roar softened then blurred. to why he was there; was it he or circumstance that had allowed this all. this scene. and to the night before even; its wave had never left - even in sleep - and each moment closer riled and lapped at him. he had glanced more than once in anticipation at the hands above the old man - and the hands were cautious and slow in movement. il caffeine was coursing, this he knew. but this was more; it wasn’t daily. and self-induced? No. Sadly – no. this he knew also, and would have no other way.

Indebted, un euro, an infinite sum. priceless. Money can’t buy me. he had been here before. and it never lasted long (enough). he knew to savour; and he sipped. his espresso was cold. and the noises had found their sources and redifferentiated into chaos: perhaps he’d savoured too long. the hands were changed. it loomed. it was imminent now. yet distant. and further yet, still at a distance. he steered his gaze away from the creep and from the infatigable machinist around the narrow bar past racks of il vino and spirits presented on show, and the diminishing paninis, croissants, pastries - as hotcakes - toward the source of the invited commotion and of his own. coats and scarves streamed by and on occasion, in a burst of cold and greater noise, one entered to partake. periodically one would stir him momentarily; deserving a second glance. and failed inspection only to rise anticipation and consent one further glance to the wall behind to tell still it was to come. But then one more, another inspection, another coat of promise. then a familiar scarf; to come through the doors. then removed, then the face he knew: the bright eyes; the mirroring glance; the smile. he swallowed the last of the cold distaste and bitterness as she approached: un euro, grazie, ciao, scarf, coat.

The light of day.

The light of day

It induces all;

Of the sun resting

Gently on the streets;

Illuminating the canvas; and

The souls’ will to create;

The stroll checked though

For now it is blank;

And to paint the light

Nothing can be done.

Promise must flicker.

Oh Barack, it’s been a year almost to the date since I, in a gush of I think you can emotion, wrote your praises so. I cherished your inaugural speech to the UN. I lauded your ambition and, for me, your unprecedented audacity in that speech in Cairo addressing the other world. I was so taken with you, so sure of you, so instilled with the sense of hope that you'd instilled in most of us. 

Now, gone by a year has and, well, it has been a struggle. A year of protracted defense in many ways.  The said majority have been behind you, remaining loyal and explaining and justifying the days away. Dark days it was that enveloped the Bush years. All but diminishing the shining star over three interminable terms. The inherited remnants; a hollowed, depressed and tortuous, slow-ebbing silhouette of what once was, ungiven even a chance to consolidate ahead of further coming afflictions. No longer, for certain, the pioneer of our hemisphere; the peak ambition of Team America World Police once classified as simply foolhardy now looks a rational folly attributed only to the clinically insane.

Lit expectations, as bright new spark, you have been entrusted with a lot. Though much, I dare, your own doing. Yet now, till date, we need a renewed strike; an act, no promise, of change. And while nocturnal forces, which’ve been ever-present, have been staved off and such lawn-laying villains are surely only detrimental to their own cause. Your troops, I fear, grow weary - libertarians and others who stood for the cause begin to wane and develop their right to question and doubt.

Most minds appreciate the mire of multiple wars along with the impeccable timing of the GFC are the thick clouds blanketing return to brilliance. Though it is unknown if the shine is still there; if it is true and hidden. In any case, to continue in this manner indefinitely is impossible . Clouds shift, and promise must flicker.

The strides and efforts of moving the shadowed masses, to be used as evidence in our defenses, are not enough apparent. There is an emerging clarity in all of this. The administration has seemingly baulked at the sound of thunder fearing the threat of lightening. Promises are unfulfilled: Gitmo; heath care reform; financial regulation; don’t ask don’t tell. I believe the intentions remain and progress progressing; but idle threat has seen to your surrender.

It may be unfair to expect ALL promises be realised. We are only mid-term. Still will be time to deliver and make good for the next campaign. Not everything is in your control also. But appearances tell you aren’t doing enough. This is the real concern. My concern. PR is failing you. 

One of your recent speeches, addressing college students, had you acting out an analogy of surviving a car crash in a ditch. The Republicans had stumbled off in drunken haze while you, I suppose grateful to have survived the impact, are left with the responsibility of getting back on the road. It was then you proceeded to literally roll up your sleeves. Before stamping around the stage as if trying for that firm foothold in the mud. Then raising your arms to attend the bumper and heave it back on the road. Oh dear. The students were not laughing with you, they were laughing at you, in an awkward kind of shock. 

A far far cry Barack, from those lofty pillars you outlined in NY before the world leaders. Now you mime and scramble in a ditch. The fact is, no longer does one care how you found yourself in there. It has been enough established. We only care how you're finding your way out.

Café Nero.

The old, plump man stands animated; arms flailing in an emotive gesture. Attentively the woman is listening as if infatuated on every, single, word.  Friends contrived. An odd encounter sustains a relationship. But there is no context, missing, and as such permits the (re)uniting of kin. And so parley the state of the mother, of the children, of the shop: fine and tidy and just getting by with its top quality produce and reasonable prices. Some Marxist fantasy land. The altruistic delicatessen you wish to meet. But you cannot - no context.

The right’s corresponding: here the abundant Italian facade's spelled out. The store sign in rich gold plated lettering. Specials and offers and menus in delightful Italian speak of the finer things, without any requirement of translation.  The wares without distinction to the store, left, and similarly arranged. Though the trader finds himself a more streamlined industrious fellow; the type of Italian endeavoring to work twice as hard to vainly spur a leaky economy.

Both scenes are trying. It has all been done… over and over… and over again. It is fitting, then, that the bland freeze-frames are incorporated to such a significant (and arrant) extent to compliment the fresh burgundy, the fading wood, the worn brown leather. It is further fitting, then, that these pieces are overlooked.

Principally ignorant of the unworthy attention is an animated young pair. They sit under the passionate encounter deep amongst the leather, swept in conversation as heads bop to and fro and limbs figuratively fly to illustrate the most worthy lines of reason. They aren't here for the coffee.

In the opposite corner, to the dynamic duo, on chairs by tables, sits an overweight, middle-aged couple subdued under newspaper and books and coffee cups. Underneath decadent latin romance, the man nose deep in a miniature guidebook squints at the finer print. The woman, blank, poses a tough question in which he must delve deep and squint harder to reference. Excuse for silence. The answer, eventually, bricklane.

Obscuring the couple of pairs, and the aforementioned pair, sit three. Three: the all-consuming epitome.  One shrieks in a joyous high-pitched wail of pub crawls, walking tours, poor housing, lack of work, of new farm, of townsville, of brisbane, of portugal, of paris, of contiki, of an apparent perpetual undying… The others nod.

The brown leather lounges, bejeweled by the flailing philanthropic Italian and his ceaseless ability to surprise and enthrall through pithy comment and contentious opinion and his one-woman fan club, hosts a new couple, bringing identical cups of black tea, identical outfits and identical glasses, shoes and homely hair. Behold. They acknowledge each other rarely. Secure in each others committed presence, they sip their tea.

All with their chosen supplements considered worthy investments. They take. They talk. They listen. They reflect. One by one a couple leaves. A new party arrives to take their place. On-going til the lights are dimmed and the scenes shadowed. Then the chairs returned to order, the cups cleaned, the tables wiped, the floors washed. For it all beings again tomorrow...

Over and over, and over again

Lord's.

Sitting at Lord's and vitalising the spirit in the way only cricket can achieve. Basking in the glorious sun and tightening as passing clouds linger too long. Some sit absorbed in The Times and latest paperbacks. Others engage disengaged gazes. Sip teas and coffees, though most likely tea. And I sit here scribbling away.

We look up sporadically to observe the state of proceedings. Fixed with interest after the thick crack of a drive through cover or a forceful square cut guided behind point (all the shots worth playing are on the off side after all). Before singles and dots send most back to their literary worlds and blank distant thoughts; fading the play to conscious’ edge. The waves of cloud, endlessly passing, blunt the sun’s shine.

A juggled catch has disturbed us all. It was brilliantly taken: first slip managed to get his finger tips to a nick high above his head before spinning around and diving to the grass, clasping the leather before the bounce. Brilliant! And the next batsmen in is James Cameron much to everyone’s grin and idle comment. Worcestershire 104 for 5.

London and clouds are seemingly inseparable. And I don’t refer to metaphoric darkness of hard times. There are clouds FOREVER over London. And not like the everyday clouds witnessed over other sunburnt lands, but big, thick, menacing masses. Most queer is the phenomenon’s not only found in the sky; it comes up in everyday conversation as the locals seek to whine you of the presence above, of omnipresent tormentors seeking to haunt the city (and our lives!) below. 

Fortunately enough the rain's remained a rather distant threat to the afternoon session. Though the already dimmed September sun has been well contained by the sentinel spirits; sending a chill around the ground. The few hundred in attendance have felt fit to rug up, as English as they may be.

As a good ball invites a leading edge to second slip. Textbook. And then another, identical! The next ball is again caught by second slip this time slightly lower. Collins’ on a hattrick. For yet another nick too! Though the hattrick ball flies agonizingly between diving wiki and first slip. Groans followed by the wildest of cricket applauses sound around the ground. Mini collapse. Worcestershire 155 for 7 in their second innings and leading by just 76 with Middlesex having their second inning still to come. One only wonders what the state of the day four pitch will be like tomorrow. 

Most in the sparse crowd appear to have come straight from work serving corporate digs, or’ve since met with retirement and rejected the optional attire that such an arrangement affords. Very proper and well to do. Though I daresay many are failed attempts at the Pavilion.

The Pavilion is the members place of worship within this English Cathedral of cricket; the only remaining Victorian piece of architecture and resembling more a mansion than anything else. It hosts the team dressing rooms, trophy rooms and some fantastic viewing areas. One also finds many bars, a rooftop terrace and even lounging areas with wifi within the multi-leveled warren of winding passageways. Its main viewing room is the literally named Long Room: situated behind the bowler’s arm it features broad windows the length across and the players’ walkway from the field to their dressing rooms. The institution of tradition is abundant throughout and seems to seep through the muted walls and floorboards. It is all that one would come to expect from the refined English. Though making it inside is the tough part. 

The doors are guarded by the toughest bouncers of all: two critical, cordial, and constitutional grey-haired men pushing personal centuries sporting suits from the last. Access is granted solely on their discretion. Principally one must be a member, or be signed-in by a member, finely dressed with an EVENLY PRESSED (yes...) suit and accompanying tie and polished black leather shoes (shininess!).  Furthermore one must also be humble, know one’s place, and appreciative of the impending grand gift of tolerance that one is about to receive (it’s okay, they will suffer gallantly). Preferably also one mustn’t be from Pakistan descent or, undoubtedly, a woman. Then, and only then, will one have access to the overpriced bars, tweed fabrics and free wi-fi that one’s heart such desires.

Sometimes you don’t know how much you love something until it’s gone and then reappears; or at the least are usually served well with a reminder. At ten minutes to six, with seven overs to go in the day, the sun has reemerged at strength to bid farewell and to cast long drawn rich shadows across the field. Its warmth lost only by the Pavilion already shrouded in shade. 

Of course, the tradition of the Lord’s members and the Pavilion is effortlessly admirable: it’s typified in its façade. The Pavilion’s brown brick, outlined by white terraces and palisades, looks a majestic chronicle of history as it overlooks the vast expanse of pure green; bothered only by a scattering of white animations that draw in and out of formation every six balls. In a city of 12 million people it’s a haven, a heaven. Today especially as the stands, mostly empty (for only half have been opened), sit as fortifications of sheer, plain and uninterrupted white against the greys of beyond.

Only the alien craft hovering over my head reminds us this is London and this is twenty ten. The white pod with its glass face that is the media centre sits at the opposite end to the pavilion in remarkable contrast. It’s not even for public use. The scene is the epitome of London as it stands. Further reflected by the fact the Worcestershire batsmen Ali who’s raising his bat after a nifty 50 off 53 balls is also wielding a tremendous thick black beard.

And as the players saunter off to their rooms after earnest efforts to a round of applause, it is time for all to make their way from the sanctuary and back, revitalised, into the world.

El estación de autobuses.

The view through the smudged window was unextraordinary; the desolate brick and cement invoked not just no interest but a distinct restlessness that didn't help her temperament. She had the option of turning around and greeting the harsh fluorescent lights of the waiting room but decided the former was the better option and returned to the window and the soft vast expanse in the glass. She wished to be one of the buses hibernating in the darkness on the far side of the square.

The clock struck twelve and a woman next to her got up and left. She had been called, no doubt, saved from this transit purgatory. She felt envy and rather fixated the emotion on herself: why hadn't she just arrived later! But realising the behavior was not conducive with regard to the further two hours of waiting ahead of her, she tried to calm herself and went back to the stillness of the window.

She stared at the empty bays though found herself imaging the blast of white light that preceded the grand, air-conditioned, floating, cloudy bed with the orange sign warmly signaling B A R C E L O N A and the driver with his pressed collar and shiny black shoes who would ensure she traveled in her dreams.

So she got up and strolled over to the vending machines at the far end of the room. Usually she would have rolled her suitcase along with her but considering the circumstances she didn't care: the imminent bottle of water, and should her pockets provide any fortune some chocolate, carried the gravitas. Besides there was only a couple of middle aged ladies sitting at the opposite window across from her and an old grey haired man whose desire was just to pace the length of the window in keen interest as if he was viewing an aquarium.

Much to her great frustration, and verging on a rage-filled-screaming-fit, after an intense drawn out process of careful consideration, the machine wouldn't take anything less than 50 cent coins so she was unable to get either the water or chocolate. Compelled to buy something after making the decision and the move, she didn't want the ladies to think her strange or poor, she was sure the old man who had been still in an outward blank stare for the past few minutes hadn't noticed, she settled her lone euro for an unsatisfying pack of mints.

The mints at least provided some stimulation and her eyes had adjusted to the harshness of the room. The ladies sat whispering in front of her though they might have been shouting, the dimensions of the room had grown over time and it seemed to stretch full length across her flat world of eternal sunshine. Though their mannerisms suggested it might have been polite whispering. And she was satisfied, as she animatedly took another mint, that the whispering was not about her.

The window behind their heads was glared and she was unable to see if the ladies were neglecting a better view than hers they might have been privy to. Though to be fair, it seemed much the same, much darkness, much nothing, and her reflection caught her attention. Not good, she thought, this light would be doing her no favour. How she usually spent this hour of a friday night still preparing to venture out with her friends escaped her. It's just different, she concluded without pause for consideration and played at her hair in the window until she was satisfied - in case of the remote chance there might be a bus driver of interest.

Apart from her reflection there must have been something on the window because the old man persisted. He'd resumed his pacing the length of the glass as if he himself were in a cage fixated on the concept of freedom. She studied him a bit closer, with literally nothing else to look at, he walked slowly with that typical hunch that she was unsure why old people ended up with. He was dressed well, but not well, just neatly; with an ironed white collared shirt tucked into a black belt raising brown shorts to the knees; and with white socks pulled above polished black leather shoes; he carried a shoulder length leather bag, roughly the size of her purse, that was apparently empty the way it flapped about him. He almost looked like a bus driver. Yes, that was it. He was a bus driver, longing, forced into retirement with his gold watch (that might have been hiding under his buttoned sleeve) after a lifetime of service. With no foreseeable purpose in life he came to the waiting room of his old bus station to watch the buses flow in and out and reflect on his days when he lived this life at its peak. She wondered if he was even waiting for a bus, but without emotion, and eventually grew bored of the old man and returned to the window.

At one o'clock a bus arrived as if shipping in the Vegas Strip and unloaded a buzz of light and sound and movement; passengers fell about the station and hurriedly collected their suitcases before hunting down the exit like a wolf gang. Then the driver, after extinguishing his cigarette on the tarmac via the polished toe of his black boot, put the bus into a reverse of beep... beep... beep... beep... then the woosh as the clutch was stomped and the beast directed forward and its rumble faded from whence it came. It was all over so soon, in a matter of minutes, and a fading memory as the still darkness returned to consume the world.

A dog stood in front of her, blank and curious. She had heard a scurrying and had turned back from the window to meet it. She looked at the old man and the ladies - both displayed no interest. It seemed pleasant enough, it was obviously a stray but it wasn't bloody and didn't appear aggressive, she thought it was in a pretty good state. So when it settled, content with a certain area on the grey tiling for a place to sleep, she remained unmoved and just observed the brown, warm looking foreign thing as it fell into some strange state of alertness of which she could relate.

Her eyes were only resting, she insisted, when the pitter-patter of paws sounded again. She glimpsed them scampering back out the door and then heard the growl of a bus. She was the only one in the station now and she grabbed her things before walking out into the summer air. The white light of the bus was blinding but she could make out the illuminated destination. The screech of the brakes and then the release of the compressed air brought it to a stop. She gave her ticket and climbed on board.

Cerrado.

After a good while in the closeted, dark space that he so often frequented, Ignacio realised the rain was beginning to give way under the strength of the August sun and shortly he would be obliged to return to the city in which he was supposed to be living.

His visits to this part of the house were discouraged by his Mother, even an absent minded observer would have appreciated her will only strengthened her son's to be there, save for when the heavy and thick mass of rain brought normal activities inside. His Mother had always keenly desired him to be normal and Ignacio felt it wasn't even some unattainable normality in him that she sought, but a code for him to change to being someone else altogether. So the two fought regularly. And it was to his great relief and fortune that the summer heat swept over the Mediterranean from foreign lands, unspeakable places his Mother daren't entertain, had been shrouded by the muffling grey cloak of rain.

As he observed the gradual resurgence of light filtering through the window and on to the bed which he lay, Ignacio calmly and slowly finalised his plans. He closed his eyes and reviewed them carefully but without any further consideration. Then he rose, and made the bed so it was in the same state as he found it, and went down the stairs to where he was sure his Father would be waiting ready to head out.

The room upstairs was notoriously outside time; not because he had no source of it but because he would idly lose its concept. Therefore, he wasn't surprised when the kitchen clock read it was well after siesta time but rather adapted his running thought to its sudden return and the accompanying regime that intruded into his world outside the room upstairs. Understanding, he envisaged the shop must be opening for trading or at least undergoing weather induced repairs, without seeing his Father or Mother he left the house.

The air was cold and the wind ruffling the clouds pierced his summer attire. He enjoyed the dull discomfort; it was vitalizing. He walked the way with a vigour he didn't usually carry on the walk to work but there was no avoiding the energy of the time. People seemed to share his spirit, the streets were already a buzz of activity not seen since the rain had begun. Final thunderclaps were heard as shop shutters were rolled up and signs ignited its evening intentions. Others ambled aimlessly, and slowly, they kicked at the stony ground and skimmed their toes in the puddles and took heavy breathes and prospectively assessed the reactivating economy; licking their lips, catching themselves in the glass windows and fingering their pockets. In an apparent awe as if discovering a lost-land that by unknown means was vaguely familiar.

It wasn't the time for shopping but the weather had transcended the routine of time and dictated mass behaviour. Ignacio arrived at the shop ready to embrace the shift. It was closed but the interior lights were on; his parents must have been finalising preparations or even waiting for him. The door was locked and displayed cerrado. He couldn't see any movement in the front and he used his key to skip inside. He was disappointed at the condition of the store; it looked as if nothing had been prepared and he had to dodge the abandoned rebajas signs that were dumped inside when the weather initially approached. He could see the stock and the till hadn't yet been closed off from that day. It was strange nothing was done. He continued past the clutter and into the back room, the hall light was on, as was the light in his Father's office. Ignacio found it empty and in the same unkempt state.

Where his parents might have been he did not know nor could he find a satisfying scenario in his mind that would allow him to start work on the shop. Then on the desk he saw an envelope with a scribbled Ignacio. He opened it without thought and read it through, taking every word, in complete haste. Only then did he allow the handwritten words of his Mother and the cold cordiality of his Father to sink in. The words advised Ignacio they had left for unspeakable lands, leaving him the house and the shop.

Ignacio's expression was blank. He slowly reached into his pocket and retrieved the pages of his scribblings that he had spent hours and hours in the upstairs room devising. He grabbed at the folded papers with both hands and calmly tore it over and over, before allowing the shreds to fall gently to the floor.