Brilliantine The Mind

Brilliantine the mind though gusty be the roads through loneliness. Walking alone through the city I felt old sentiments astir. A gilded flame blowing around the edges of the heart. Also a memory of youth walking through light & windless rain, my body ephemeral shedding its name. It was like this to be specific: Along the street it was autumn as it also was in that part of the earth that day. A sturdy wind, unruly as a mule, came & went blowing all kinds of things along the pavement & in my head - Alone with yourself as they say. But my thoughts soon passing old unattended glories, dropped gaze & left the way they came.

On the bridge I lit the firecrackers, watching them fall in a sparkling chatter to the river - silver bodied under the empty sky & the white glow of electric lights. Once I imagined a broken filament of love stirring to glow inside the hollow threads of a bygone summer. But guided as I was through the chaos  of the night I was no more than a child drawn to a lit keyhole. A goldfish investigating a sparkling grain of sand momentarily snared by light. What do I think of love now? Nothing. Except once I knew it in a place being young & studied the wounds it left in small, windy rooms & strong moonlight. A molten wing was crafted in those idle hours delightfully potent & unfragile in its idea, though to this day I've found little to no practical use for it. But time was the easiest currency to spend then & you always wanted your own music played being young, & there was no hurry troubling over things like bread or rain but rather what it was right  that moment, in the world, with the days flying face down over the green felt like cards & your heart testing the flame.

Of course I was afraid. Of course also the wind was my friend & the rain was always a good reason for smoking.When I say the wind I do not mean to describe only the sensation of its travel & breath. I mean I am looking at a girl. The wind comes from nowhere & drops down my spine & if the wind is something we both knew we were good for each other for at least a little while. When I say the wind I mean after one winter the dark camellias crowded the staircase in a small wooden house in the south & she was gone & even the dog knew you were going to be no good & there was a piano in the house & you knew that you'd play more not because music was necessarily medicine but because you were alone & it was there, right in front of the fireplace, a shiny thing of wood, at times oddly more animate than yourself or the dog. And did that happen? When I talk about the wind I mean to say it didn't happen, the piano was always there, obediently gathering dust & the hearth crackled with flame as you lay down alone, beguiled by sentiment, sorting through etcetera. And then one night driving back to the city the stars like lit windows along the hills all the way to the city where she was. You wanted to be lit up the same way inside the night & the thought alone sufficed & when the wind blew through it didn't find room to whistle through the cracks for the first November in a couple of years.

Theres no point telling you about the rain. That is another thing altogether. Down Thirlemere Street I let the thought cut itself loose of me & I went around the corner for a coffee & browsed thoughtlessly through a newspaper, sitting in a night without significance. The arrival of morning now seemed both inevitable & preferable as  simple as coins of separate currency being exchanged. After the coffee, I threw the newspaper in the garbage by the door. The wind in my face walking out I knew love was not something I ought to have thought of yet & I walked back along the river looking at the city in what blueness was left of the night .

A Fake Twenty On Your Honeysucker

I wake up in Chinatown, where being irrelevant but accustomed to dissecting meretricious hubbub at snails pace I fix the cigarette with a scrap grain of boiled rice off a stool with a painted phoenix, pasting the torn paper & screwing the smoke back to the filter. The wind brings the smell of medicated balm & five spice & mid-task,  I decide to reserve the item for a purer moment. A hot faced boy in a white singlet & a monk's shaved head wheels from an exploding firecracker as I walk up the shop alleyway. He gives me the evil eye & pokes his tongue out through grubby teeth. I say: Fine Li Po Jr. I'll clean up your old man in the next game of mah jong and am somewhat perturbed when he darts inside the shop like a frightened bird.

Feeling dry in the throat & a little muddled by my shallow sleep I loiter in thinking to re-invigorate with cold coconut juice & knock over a tattooed hick squatting in dark sunglasses by the vegetable freezer. Hey right on the money Hong - how much for this? he says clutching an exquisite hand carved bone dagger I'd have pilfered myself had I seen it on a shelf. But to be handed the evil eye & be called Hong in the space of a minute has blown a shot of hot mercury down my spine. I stare him down through the one way shades but seeing only my own disconcerted reflection I settle on a simpler appraisal of the situation. No matter that my names neither Canelutti or Hong, compassion enlivens karma. For you its free, I say, carrying my head of heavy fog up the aisle. Hey just playing fuck nuts. You're alright Jack, he says, giving me the double thumbs up. Leaning on a rack of multi colored yoyo's & plastic abacus I take out a beaten pocket notebook & write: 1. when absentminded I may exude an air of small shop ownership. 2. the thumb may at times resemble a pick axe. Two of the shop attendants follow him out to the street. He does not know how to bargain & with an expert thumb lock one swiftly kneels him on the ground while the other recites fiery Cantonese poetry. I retrieve the notebook again noting drily: Noticeable chinks in my armor.

An old silver haired Chinese man glides out from somewhere & stepping out the doorway, coolly waves one of the attendants over. I am not curious to witness the conclusion of the scene & take a can of coconut juice & a string of standard firecrackers up to the counter. I immediately see an old woman in a chemise of pale yellow frowning at me & the boy behind her in a cane chair cushioned by old Hong Kong gazettes sobbing dismally. What is wrong with you? Why you make boy cry? He only little kid., the old woman barks, cutting me down further with a malicious glare. Three hits in a row inside two minutes all within a 10 meter radius of occurrence. I am rightly pillaged & no longer know what to think & say. Then the old man in batik glides out from a corner beside the boy & says something calmly monotone to the old lady. I make a note of his character to write down later on: Shards of pomade like ice pasted on either side of temples. A small slouch..cool hard eyes - dead give aways for an old master adequately self tutored in subtleties. A gliding shuffle for a walk - weak bones, likes to sit on his ass & read newspapers to kill time when business is quiet. Has long been ready for a more exotic version of paradise.

The pair discuss things for a little while while I stand rooted to the spot with a can of juice dangling firecrackers. The old woman undoubtedly has fire in her belly but the old man has metamorphosed into a cloud peaked mountain. She accedes when the old man starts interrupting her retorts with one word, the same word, the meaning of which I do not know & carries the now wailing boy through the passage way behind a faded green flower curtain. The old man steps up to the counter. Thank you, he says. Life's tiring, isnt it ? he says. Thank you for what exactly? I ask impatiently sticking to the point. Knowing I was face to face with a reasonable man, I abused the privilege & showed off my temper. You have a cigarette?, he said. I have my last one, I told him. He glided to the tobacco shelf & looked back inquisitively. Chesterfields, I said. Good, he says & shuffles around the corner smiling quietly to himself. I take a twenty out of my wallet & hand it to him. Things have taken a small turn for the better. I could feel that the way rheumatics feel variations in weather with their bones. The old man looks at the twenty I am holding out. That is a fake twenty, he tells me, I can tell from here. But it should make purchase anywhere else. Lets go have a smoke outside.

Outside a small breeze has churned in. The tattooed man is sitting up looking contemplative but cradles his head back in his knees when the old man shows up on the staircase. The old man opens the pack & lets the cellophane strip seal drift away with a gust. Ahh a southeaster, he says making a few other calculations in his mind. The day begins in the dogs mouth. But after auspicious signs are acknowledged... the old man stops, picks a smoke from the box & hands the rest to me. Apologies, he says. Thank you. I say & light one for myself. The old man is still thinking, he breathes out a slow-curling stream & taps his ash away from the staircase. Then he continues: After auspicious signs are acknowledged the traveler remembers the beauty of a shadow.

I acknowledge his character more than his words. I realize I understand him rather easily, but keep looking at the tattooed man cradling his head out on the street. He'll be fine. He's resting. the old man says. Had you not startled him up behind the freezer he would have been able to sneak out with that dagger. I had just looked up from reading a newspaper & saw it in his hand. It was a matter of timing. The dagger belongs to that boy. An excellent heirloom, I said. Yes, the old man says. It would be at least a hundred & fifty years old & made towards the end of that particular craftsman's life. Anyway we found that with the boy on these same steps 7 years ago. That is why I never ash on these steps & get it swept every evening. We do not have children of our own. I see. I said. - would you like another smoke? I ask him though I know he will not be up to it. The old man puts his hand up. Just 3 a day for me. he says, any more is foolish. There is a small unsettled matter in my mind & the old man obliges. The boy probably thought you were mad & had chased him into the shop. But children make those kind of mistakes. I guess so I said. Life is tiring isnt it? he said. Among other things, I said. Among other things, the old man said. Ok , I said. Yes, he said. Have a good afternoon.

I kick off the ash I dropped on the steps & walk over to the tattooed man sitting on the street. I ask him if he too wants a smoke. Hell, why not?, he says. I done away with the dirty things years ago. But I'll have one. His face is somewhere traveling through Missouri via Macau. I am not talking about his physical state as the old mans handlers have left him unscratched. He seems nevertheless a better man for the small beating, the dodge & edginess gone. I haunch down on one knee & light up for him & get up. That was a beautiful dagger man, he says emptily. That it was, I say. Do you know what that creature was?, he says. The creature carved on the handle? That was a kylin man. A kylin ordains the coming of a sage. I really wouldn't have a clue. I said. The tattooed man coughs. I get your drift man. I fill him in about the boy. Lucky I didnt get away with it then. Poor bastard, he says. I laugh. No, no man. I didnt mean it that way, he sighs tiredly looking back towards the shop. I don't blame you. I tell him.

I walk off turning west at the corner. In a small while I am on a wide street, lined with small plane trees their leaves falling down green. A small while later I am looking at an errant streak off the sunset gilding the number 6 on a window when I hear Erik Saties gymnopedie being played how I've always heard it in my head. Foot off the pedal, no introspection, straight out blunt with innocence. I take out the fixed cigarette & light it following my own smoke towards the lamps being switched on over the tenement.

I'm thinking I'll set these firecrackers off this evening somewhere along the bridge. Although in truth I had bought them for the boy.