My · Husband · Left · Me · For · Tori · Spelling

if there were a mirror set just under my chin, i would see the peculiar glaze that sets about my eyes whenever i indulge myself in the humdrum activities that keep me from my writing. perhaps then i would renounce the daily effort of ordering files on my computer, of stacking books into neat lines - for the mirror would accuse me fairly of bovinity.

of course the mirror is already in place - made not of glass, but self awareness. should it not be enough to know the ways in which i sabotage myself, in order that i don't? it would seem to be but half the journey. so months slink away like minutes - and take with them my self-esteem and ambition. 'to-do' lists jotted down jauntily in january remain unmet in march. yes, i'll just create a thousand things from nothing that demand my attention, then i'll get around to that. and as though nothing were not enough to be getting on with, i dally with daydreams: a parallel universe and the job pages of newspapers are heavy with posts for procrastinators, the wages for which make the city bankers look like bob cratchit. i don't apply - because in this universe i am already bill gates; a self-made man who knows the business of pissing about better than hawking knows black holes.

i need what the japanese call a 'kettobase', which translates as something like: swift kick. i should hope to administer the kick myself.

though not writing much at home, i still attend the class - which tends to be more fun than work.

arriving yesterday at charing cross, i noticed someone familiar staring up at the destination boards. someone i went to university with, someone in fact i'd lived with once yet  whose face i hadn't considered for six years. late as always, i hadn't the time to talk, even if i'd wanted to, but i was intrigued to see him there standing like a soldier, as though commanded by my memory. instead i snuck into a little corner by burger king and watched him from the shadows.

there is always something touching about watching someone you know going about their lives alone and unaffectedly. sometimes you'll drive past your brother as he bends over to brush a leaf from his trainer into the gutter, or you'll see your lover dining alone in a cafe, chewing hard on his burger. unaware they are being observed, a clarity about them suddenly emerges - and an emotion somewhere between pity and love passes through.

i noticed that my friend had not changed much - that his idle way of clutching the straps on his bag was the same now as i'd remembered it. different bag, serving an age old habit that probably began in the cradle with a ribbon or a blanket. and as sure as our faces are prescribed, our manners and ways of moving become so too.

looking up at the boards i was reminded of his eyes - big and bold. green and yellow like a lion's, which say he was born in august. and his skin - still creamy and tight over his cheekbones - always then, and now making his face look like it was wrapped and ready for consumption. there is no sign on his face of six years having gone by - not an inkling of a wrinkle, nor a dash in the brow. perhaps time makes no dent on the innocence of those immune to it.

a flutter of the boards tells him the train is ready, and he's gone. i pick myself up from my corner, and jog out of the station, remembering i am already late.

turning out of kingsway onto the final stretch towards college i noticed a man walking towards me. at the very moment our paths crossed the man, dressed in grey and with shiny brown eyes leant down to the pavement to pick up a gold band ring that lay between us. with a glance in my direction, he extends his arm to show me as though he were wielding a pistol.
'gold?' he asks me in a thick russian accent.
'yes, gold, ' i say noting the stamp on the interior.
'you want?' he asks pushing it towards my face.
'no, no. you found it - it's yours.'
he appears to not understand me at this point, and pushes the ring closer towards me to inspect. i stare at it for a second then say 'gold, yes. yours. you found it. good luck.'
unsatisfied he continues to hold the ring aloft. i move away from it slightly and whilst doing i notice his eyes now have the sturdy gaze of satanic vigour.
alarmed, i move in the opposite direction, protesting my lateness and wishing him good luck.
as i turn to look back i notice him fiddling with the ring and scratching his head as though he were a cartoon bear.

at my class there were 6 of us out of twenty - a small enough number for it to feel festive, but i will write about that tomorrow.