Writing/Travelogue - Sheffield (2)
The Wild Dog/Darts et al...
My mates look older. I look older. But I can’t see myself. There is a space where my head is when I look at myself. I can see my nose, and if I try hard enough, my eyebrows. I can see my cheeks and my mouth if I try hard, too. But these are just pieces. I exist in the places between these pieces.
On the street on the Hot Friday, there is a wild dog. It is tired and too warm, lying on its side. It breathes fast, belly rising and falling like a stressed tide. I look at the dog in its eyes and it peers at me - too fucking hot, fuck this - the eyes tell me. I leave the dog in peace. This doesn’t really happen. I just imagine it after thinking of the scene with the mad dog in To Kill a Mockingbird. In another piece of imagination, the dog breathes fire when I get too close, as both a warning to me, and to let off heat. Just to be clear, this doesn’t happen either.
Went to see a great band called Franz Von in this place. An alternative venue. Full of great people and good music.
On the Saturday, there is a Pride Festival at Neepsend. Alas, a little rain comes. I love Pride celebrations. So life-affirming. Someone jumped in one of our photos. Boss. Later, we played electronic darts in a sports bar, which was a great laugh.
Saw this in the midst of Sheffield. Love it. We should enjoy these statues before fascism becomes even more mainstream and they are knocked down. Thanks to the women of Sheffield for their efforts during the wars!
According to this graffiti, the leader of Italy is a fascist witch. I wonder what she would say about the statue above? Too woke? There was a documentary film festival on the weekend we were there. I attended an art exhibition that featured one while walking to the station on the Sunday to go home. It rained heavily and I sat under some thick trees on benches outside the station. Some ‘heavy drinkers’ were ‘heavily drinking’. I wondered what their stories were. I indirectly fed some monkey nuts to some pigeons by dropping a few on the floor. I see my mate Jim in the station, who is a bit rough after the last two days’ excess (I don’t drink) - and we embrace as he sets off. He is 50 next year. We share a birthday. He is one year older than I.
There is a coach replacement service to Manchester and I have a kip on the bus, wedged between a young Irish lady and a middle-aged Irish man on the back seat. It is hot on that coach, but when it moves a breeze comes in through the sunlight at the top. It is an old coach without air conditioning. We wind through rural, hilly roads in Derbyshire. The fresh air is such a relief. When we stop, it gets hot. I try to be mindful. We go through little villages in the hills with red lights slowing us down and big traffic queues. ‘At least I am alive, and healthy, and fed, and not in a warzone,’ I tell myself. The heat builds as we approach midday. The scenery is beautiful, but it is swamped by the heat, and the animal brain takes over. ‘Please, world, cool me,’ my animal brain snarls. Like the dog in Sheffield I made up.
Soon we are in the urban sprawl of Manchester. I get on a train and sleep most of the way back - air con is on. Bliss. Sometimes it is just the little things.
It is good to get away. Do something different. Spend time with good people. Spend time with yourself. To think. Who are you? What do you want in life? Every day we travel. A book can help you to travel without moving. Travel broadens the mind. Takes away those blinkers for a while. You see people. You sometimes see yourself.