Uphill Struggle

I'm sitting outside a little Bodega in the vicinity of the Sagrada Família, a glass of Cava at a precarious angle to the perpendicular on the pavement table in front of me. 

I'm thinking about life, the universe, and a few other things, when a guy in a wheelchair pushes himself past up the hill. 

It's an old fashioned model, pre electric, so after every forward thrust he has to catch the wheels' rubber rims least he slip back down the hill. 

I abandon my table and the glass of Cava, grab the handles of the wheelchair and push him up the hill as far as he wants to go.

I notice that his brow is moist from the effort, and that the wheelchair's footrests are entirely redundant as both his legs are missing from the crutch down.

Meanwhile he thanks me profusely, "Gracias, gracias señor," and other words I do not catch or understand.

And having put my own trivial concerns aside for a brief moment, all I can say is the usual automatic response — "De nada," (it's nothing), which for once seems entirely appropriate.

Blind Date...

The venue was busy for a late Sunday afternoon / early evening, and there were few unoccupied tables, but as I entered I noticed that a couple were wrapping scarves and preparing to leave — vacating two small tables side by side. 

I order a drink at the bar (the bargirl tells me she will bring it to the table) then turn to see an attractive woman (of a certain age) settling behind one of the free tables I had already eyed up.

As I approach (the remaining table) the woman looks up and radiates, smiling clear eyed, in a way I recognize as other than 'normal,' transmitting a connectivity that my intuition tells me is 'different' from the usual codes of mutual indifference that so often prevent real communication between our human species.

I return a 'measured' smile (never can be too sure), and sit down beside her on the red leather bench seat at the adjoining small table.

Almost immediately she leans in close to me and starts speaking. 

I have to interrupt to say: "I'm sorry, but...."

"No problem," she immediately switches to English.

She's here on a blind date (as I understand it), and for a moment she thought that I was the man she had been expecting.

(It must be said that the lighting was rather subdued, and perhaps the brim of my hat cast a shadow over my face, obscuring my features)

She quickly adds that she knew it wasn't really 'him' (me) because I arrived on a bicycle. (!)

I say (jokingly) that she could always ride home with me 'Dutch style,' sitting on the rear carrier of my bike.

Bicycles aside, I'm rather intrigued by this whole Internet dating thing.

She tells me that her children have been encouraging her to meet someone new since the death of her husband (at some unspecified time before).

"I'm sorry... " I say, but she raises a hand as if to say 'it was all a long time ago.'

The details are spared.

"Yes, you have to carry on with life," I say,  "It's only natural after all, and we are only human. We all have human needs."

(NB. I know absolutely zero about Internet dating)

"Is this your first time?" I ask.

"No," she tells me — 

"The last time I travelled by train, but on the train I met a nice man."

Turned out that she liked the man she met on the train more than her date that evening. 

I said that the next time she met someone she liked she must ask for his name and telephone number (as if I am some kind of expert).

Soon a man walks into the bar, looking around, as if expecting to see someone he knows. 

He looks about the right age.

"Is that him?" I ask.

"No," she answers.

"You've seen his picture then?"

Up to this point I had assumed she was on a blind date.

"Yes, he's rather handsome..."

Once again I blame the subdued lighting for the earlier confusion.

"His job is a mediator," she says excitedly. "I thought that would be a good thing as I am rather outspoken and get worked-up and angry about a lot of things."

 "Is he late?' I ask.

"Yes," she says, looking at her watch, and then checking her phone to see if he had messaged her.

"I thought it was the man who should arrive early on these occasions, to allow the woman to arrive... at her pleasure."

'Yes, but..." She checks her phone again.

For a moment I wonder what's going to happen if her date doesn't show up. Will I become a substitute date? I only came in here for a quick beer and commune with my notebook, and she was obviously not very impressed by my choice of transport.

"Oh!" she says suddenly, looking through the window, "there he is!"

(Phew...)

She's right; he is a handsome fellow — full head of thick greying hair, and a healthy complexion. Professional type. 

'You must never sell yourself down,' she had said earlier.

It goes through my mind that now would be a discrete moment to move to another table, to allow them a little privacy.

But her date has already weighed up the situation, and suggests that they move to the bar, where they sit side by side on barstools.

Later, as I prepare to leave, I notice that they are on their second glass of wine and they seem to be getting on more than well together. 

I wish them the very best of what may be.

So this is where I leave this story, but once again it goes to show that — there is no good day for dying, but every day is great for living.

Philip Marlowe at MOMA

I woke up in the cool blue shadows of a Monet Haystack, with no idea how I got there and only the vaguest recollections of the previous evening — a nude descending a staircase, a woman lying on the floor with her throat cut, and a screaming pope.

I thought of the girl in the red dress, the taste of her lips, and the way her hair spilled over her shoulders like a waterfall of cool liquid copper, and then, almost as an afterthought, the sensuous curves of her back, and the violin holes I found there.

As I entered the city its perspective started playing tricks with my eyes. It was entirely deserted except for two men in the middle of the square shaking hands. There was a white marble statue of a reclining woman in the classical style, and in the distance a puff of white smoke hung motionless in the air above the silhouette of a small toy-like train. The shadows were long and black, and the sky was green. 

I went into a nearby hotel to use the bathroom. Washing my hands I glanced in the mirror, but curiously I could only see the back of my own head. In the foyer there was a man clutching an outsized tube of toothpaste to his chest.

When I came out night had already descended and the city had taken on the muffled silence of a recent snowfall. Shadows moved silently in the shadows, and occasionally stepped into the cones of yellow cast by the street lamps.

It had gone midnight when I stopped off at the Diner on the corner. I was not surprised to see the girl there, along with some guy she'd just picked up. They sat across to counter from me and looked like they might have just been to the theatre, if this was a respectable story. From a distance the man could have been me, though he obviously went to a better tailor. Red-head wore the same tight-fitting shiny red dress that accentuated her slim white arms and delicate curve of her collar bones. I wondered how far they'd got already, if he knew about the violin holes yet. They didn't seem to have much to say to each other, and the waiter's cheerful attempts at conversation were met with monosyllabic replies until he gave up trying all together. She stared at her fingernails, and he stared into the empty recesses of the neon-lit interior as if it might contain some hidden meaning. Somehow the two of them made me feel even more depressed than if the place had been completely empty.

Back in my room I thought about the girl. The feel of her magnificent cool red hair flowing down over her shoulders. I wondered about the violin holes in her back. I wondered about a lot of things.

I looked around my room and it felt small. It wasn't a mansion with wall space enough to hang art on, even if I had the dough to buy it, but it was the room I had to live in. It was all I had in the way of a home. In it was everything that was mine, that had any association for me, any past, anything that took the place of a family. Not much; a few books, pictures, radio, chessmen, old letters, stuff like that. Nothing. Such as they were they had all my memories.*

(with apologies to Claude Monet, Marcel Duchamp, Alberto Giacometti, Francis Bacon, Man Ray, Giorgio de Chirico, René Magritte, Claes Oldenburg, Edward Hopper and especially Raymond Chandler*)

Sonic Nipple

(Man Ray — Rayograph 1926)

As the top few buttons of her shirt were not fastened I couldn’t help but see the nipple of her left breast, especially as it was made from polished aluminium. Her hair was jelled and combed up with pieces of intricate silver-work holding things in place in even rows. 

“I like your nipple,” I said. It seemed like a good opening line.

“Yes, and it’s sonic,” she replied, her face broadening into a smile on a different level than mere enthusiasm. She tilted her head in the direction of an elegant woman who had just entered the room like a diva. 
“And that woman over there is none other than __________.

I didn’t recognise the name, but the inference was that this woman was a world-renowned player of the sonic nipple.

Unfortunately I woke up before the performance was due to begin, so I never got to hear what sounds the sonic nipple could produce, or just how it was played.

SoHo

Walking round the streets of Soho I see faces of a certain age that look vaguely familiar. Our eyes meet, and for a split second it's as if the brain is trying to see through the layers of prosthetic latex that have been skillfully applied to our young friends' faces. And in that split second of eye contact, it occurs to me that this is not only my impression, it's a two way process.

Fig Leaf

Fig leaf from the plaster copy of Michelangelo's David in the Sculpture Galleries (Cast Courts) of the Victoria & Albert Museum, kept in a glass case on the rear of the statue's plinth, hence the reflection of me, so not a 'selfie' as such. 

The plaster copy of David was given to Queen Victoria by the grand duke of Tuscany, but she immediately donated it to the V&A. 

Willow

This tree isn’t weeping, it’s cascading . . .

The Leaning Tower

My father had a life-long interest in the art and architecture of Italy, and the Leaning Tower of Pisa was a particular favourite.

But it wasn’t until he was in his late 60s that he was able to visit Italy. Work and family responsibility had prevented the opportunity for much foreign travel up to that point.

Having also had a life-long interest in photography, and a more recent dalliance with stereo photography, he was well equipped with cameras.

But this particular photo was taken by my mother, because if you look carefully you will see a figure on the fifth tier  — my father.

Later he recounted his experience to me: Having climbed nearly all the way to the top (presumably shortly after this photo was taken), he suddenly dropped down to his hands and knees thinking an earthquake was occurring and the tower was about to collapse — before realising it was the bells ringing above him, which were still in operation at that time. The leaning tower being effectively an elaborate campenile, or free-standing bell tower of the city’s cathedral.

By the time I get to Pisa I’m only about ten years short of the age my father was when he was there, and indeed it is a remarkable and impossible building. 

Of course I wanted to see it, and climb to the top, but it was also a kind of pilgrimage.

On the day of my visit the weather was disappointingly cold and wet, it being still only mid March.

Upon entering the tower my first surprise was that the tower is completely hollow, the staircases contained within the outer walls.  You can crane your head back and look all the way up this empty marble cylinder to the floor at the top of the tower. There are some instruments to monitor the angle of lean, which has now been stabilised.

Climbing the spiral staircases within the walls, first leaning one way, and then the other, was a very disorientating experience when you are used to buildings and staircases with walls in the perpendicular.

Inside the walls ascending the tower. I liked these  worn down marble steps by the sliding footsteps of countless thousands of visitors over hundreds of years, including those of my father.

The opening that my father posed in had been fenced off, no doubt in the interests of health and safety, and there was a safety barrier around the sixth tier, which I cannot see in the stereo photo above.

Beautifully detailed faces on the column capitals, each one different.