Flying

Oh, memory,

Thank you for letting me down and permitting me this moment.

My little project among projects – the portable pleasure of listening to non-portable Beatles albums anywhere I go.

Early-hours relief, plugged into a phone.  Abbey Road “Failed to Attend” and I’m re-headphoned on this sweet summer Saturday, trimming, normalising, squeezing-in gain, living in a cloud of sound whose ghost has hovered out of reach in corners of my room from Whetstone to Somerset and Salamanca.

Thames vans right-turn into avenues, Bedford buses let down ladies in heavy coats, Jet Provosts bump their circuits ad infinitum, my knees are scrubbed, but not the slightest weight upon my back.

All of this rotates about a chromium pin.  Look, mam, I’m flying.

Watch out, mobile phone, lying on the bed.  Watch out lonely hours of the dead. Watch out.

Outside, the sun is shining, the grass still moist, birds poke around for grubs or sing from swaying firs.

The side door edges-open.  A somewhat slight and frail old lady ventures halfway out, her hair silver and unkempt. She eyes the swelling blooms and verdant grass, turns sideways, looking up towards the blackbird, smiles uncertainly, perhaps a grimace, then pours her pail of cyanide across the frame, running down the canvas, scorching, burning through to stain the wall.

Satisfied, she smiles, unambiguously now, and walks inside to watch TV.