Going along the road... off to "college"...
I reach at the junction a confluence of lights. Neon glow, etc.
Rain-wet.
An evening class. At say five o'clock I depart into the dusk.
I have with me my bag. I have also brought my duvet with me, an amorphous mass slung on top of the bag.
Off to the western sector of the town, near a backstreet chipshop, before the suburbs peter out into motorways, unlit, near brownbrick streets.
At the "bus stop". How am I to get this cumbersome duvet on the bus. Then again I can't leave it here on the sidewalk.
Banal and self-conscious.
I walk back along Whaleboat Road. Nearing the garage... A busy road, constant streams of traffic.
I see walking before me along the pavement a girl.
Friday 20 March 2015
Friday 6 March 2015
Metropolis 9 (conclusion)
Thought to say the truth I begin to disremember the details of that movie, the Neverending-Metropolis movie. It was a long time ago now, or at least it seems so. Like pallid scenes from an unfashionable movie seen five years ago. Was there ever a city where wishes came true, or is that just my conceit, an awkward spin I put on it? Was there a director, and, more importantly, was he anything like I remember him? And, the Neverending Movie? Surely it's an absurdity to even conceive of such a thing, a grand folly. Impossible to make a film about every event that ever happened! Yet how wonderful if it were true. That scene with the heavy metal band trashing the hotel room, now did that occur, or was it remembered from some other movie or constructed from alternate scenes by my errant mind. My mind which is always dragged back to the wish-city, the Metropolis...
I got so puzzled about it all that I went back to the local cinema. A dirty-grey facade on a little-frequent street, scene of a million dispersed dreams. The usherette seemed unenthusiastic about my excited queries, but showed me wearily up some plush-scarlet steps to a glossy-white door.
Inside was a comfortable brightly-lit office space. Perhaps some sort of show-room for the public. A set of plexi-glass windows up at one end. Rounded corners, soft carpet, unobtrusive decoration, friendly to the eye. Dominant colour is an aqua-blue suggestive of a neutral, compliant efficiency. From out of nowhere looms the salesman. Neat little moustache, telephone voice, kindly-efficient eyes, extremely polite but not in the least indulgent. The merest formality of toadying and "customer is always right" concealing an enormous blank wall of indifference. Wearing a white tuxedo so shiny-pristine it's an offence to the eyes.
"Can I help you sir?". I start to mumble about do you remember old movies from five or more years ago. "Yes sir, I quite understand. Please say no more." He leads me gently but firmly to one side of the room where there is a low magazine rack covered in glossy leaflets. I try to get out an objection, but am interrupted by: "Yes sir, yes sir, quite so sir. If I could just draw your attention to our brochures?" "But..." "Thanks so much. I think you'll find you will be satisfied with our selection".
He takes a selection of these glossy brochures and fans them out skilfully on the big desk. A myriad of colours. Candy for the eye. The guy has obviously got his spiel all worked out and is allowing nothing to spoil it. Like a valet whose job is to stand around in a bathroom seeking tips. Using his automaton-like obsequiousness to express contempt. Interrupting with his large, insincere mouth: "Thankyou sir. Quite so, sir. There's really no need to explain. I feel sure our selection will be of interest to you Sir". Like a malfunctioning robot.
These glossy brochures of his are labelled Forthcoming Attractions. Not what I'm after at all. He is quite intent on selling me some new variant on my warped desire. Like flipping the channel. A New Season of Programming. It seems that my Metropolis or Wish-city was only one of these old fantasies lost among these glossy leaflets, the Upcoming Attractions drowning it out with the fanfare of their newness, with their blaring cheapness.
I guess I entered the wrong room... I'm being sold the holiday-life insurance-virtual wish machine-videogame package when what I wanted was the straight-hit-to-the-vein nostalgia trip, clear and even... though I hesitate to use the word... "authentic".
I got so puzzled about it all that I went back to the local cinema. A dirty-grey facade on a little-frequent street, scene of a million dispersed dreams. The usherette seemed unenthusiastic about my excited queries, but showed me wearily up some plush-scarlet steps to a glossy-white door.
Inside was a comfortable brightly-lit office space. Perhaps some sort of show-room for the public. A set of plexi-glass windows up at one end. Rounded corners, soft carpet, unobtrusive decoration, friendly to the eye. Dominant colour is an aqua-blue suggestive of a neutral, compliant efficiency. From out of nowhere looms the salesman. Neat little moustache, telephone voice, kindly-efficient eyes, extremely polite but not in the least indulgent. The merest formality of toadying and "customer is always right" concealing an enormous blank wall of indifference. Wearing a white tuxedo so shiny-pristine it's an offence to the eyes.
"Can I help you sir?". I start to mumble about do you remember old movies from five or more years ago. "Yes sir, I quite understand. Please say no more." He leads me gently but firmly to one side of the room where there is a low magazine rack covered in glossy leaflets. I try to get out an objection, but am interrupted by: "Yes sir, yes sir, quite so sir. If I could just draw your attention to our brochures?" "But..." "Thanks so much. I think you'll find you will be satisfied with our selection".
He takes a selection of these glossy brochures and fans them out skilfully on the big desk. A myriad of colours. Candy for the eye. The guy has obviously got his spiel all worked out and is allowing nothing to spoil it. Like a valet whose job is to stand around in a bathroom seeking tips. Using his automaton-like obsequiousness to express contempt. Interrupting with his large, insincere mouth: "Thankyou sir. Quite so, sir. There's really no need to explain. I feel sure our selection will be of interest to you Sir". Like a malfunctioning robot.
These glossy brochures of his are labelled Forthcoming Attractions. Not what I'm after at all. He is quite intent on selling me some new variant on my warped desire. Like flipping the channel. A New Season of Programming. It seems that my Metropolis or Wish-city was only one of these old fantasies lost among these glossy leaflets, the Upcoming Attractions drowning it out with the fanfare of their newness, with their blaring cheapness.
I guess I entered the wrong room... I'm being sold the holiday-life insurance-virtual wish machine-videogame package when what I wanted was the straight-hit-to-the-vein nostalgia trip, clear and even... though I hesitate to use the word... "authentic".
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