the little things

to each man his own universe. and to each universe a man, on his own. it doesn't have as much of a ring to it as it first did when it crept into my head; rattling the little bell that hangs from just a little above the door: upside-down it sorta looks a little like a light bulb. ownership is separation. is that what i'm trying to say? is that what i was trying to think? the monk from yesterday would think ownership is love, but would say god is love, and so it is that we think ourselves gods to that which we own. i did my mate(let's call him willy)'s big issue peddling today. i needed a little cash and after a little talk he became convinced he needed a little rest. go up to wolves and see your parents willy. how long has it been? your old lady must miss you. no, i'm not saying they'll take you back in, but a day with your little one, and some of your mom's cooking. that would be nice for a little rest, yeah? the boy hates me but there is trust. so, 20 magazines, 50/50 split on the money, goodbye, see you tonight by the place. and so the hordes drive at me, past me, bumping and cursing and pulling their children closer and saying good morning, nah mate, no thanks. and each lonely individual looks at you with a different face. but the angelic demon underneath is the same. once you get past the masks of pity, of rage and disgust, the smiling faces on the faces of the strangely dressed teenagers, the indifferent pursed lips on the faces of the ashamed businessmen, and you exchange your thank yous and sorrys and you scream out yet another sales pitch, do a little jig on your toes for the waif girl in a teenyweeny red dress, bow, as if exiting a stage, as she flies by, turn to the next man who's lighting a cigarette but failing, and you offer him a match but he refuses, knowing he'll have to pay more for that match than he would have bargained for. if in the split second they look at you and you look back, your eyes meet; you sense the loneliness. and you sense it with every morsel of life that makes you, you. a quick chill that burns your skin and eyes and leaves suddenly, drawing the window shut behind it. but you feel too the wind blowing in your baggy trousers and inflating them for just a moment, like a balloon. and your pockets rise with them, empty, penniless. so the next prospect comes along, and you accost him, more vigourously, holding the damn sleeved "last one" so close to his face the muscles round his nose tighten suddenly into some momentary attempt at anger. and you wonder if everybody else is just like you. waiting for nothing but the next meal, the next fuck, and the next moment of blissful sleep. and every other act, a necessary evil. a universe outside to which we venture, but always in our bubbles. in our own universes. £17 wasn't a bad haul. willy came back with a black and blue eye, old man don't like it too much when i pop round. i'd say sorry, invite him out to the park for a drink and some bread, but with pockets heavy and the ship steady, once again i'm back in my own world. the next meal found, perhaps a fuck off big luce who's always round the park on a friday night (note to self: must remember clinic, free condoms), and with the sky so clear and the wind dropping, some sleep, sound and sailing away beyond the bells and the light bulbs, to the deep green valleys and tall conquered mountains of dreams. good night.

an introduction. hello

so, here i am. the library cold and humid as usual. its birmingham, england. and late november is dull, the dullest month of all. the pagan festivals of october have passed. i watched the indians in bright orange and red make the most of what remains of ancient diwali. that was some time a little over a month ago. i thought of anjuli, the girl i defiled as a teenager in the public toilet at handsworth park. every indian i saw on diwali seemed to have the same lamenting eyes she had, huge and uninvolved with the outside. then came halloween. the teenage girls in the witch and demon and vampire outfits, snow white legs bare, part hidden behind the black fishnets, the wind lashing, the whispering rain tempting me to grab one and show her the delights of the street. that was on broad street, the centre of all the devil's acceptable works in this city; there are other places. some smiled at me, but always with disgust. to the rest i was invisible; they either chose this blindness or the alcohol chose it for them. i robbed a packet of celebrations chocolates from the sainsbury's on broad street. i felt young again. i remembered jack, my older brother, the two of us trick-or-treating many many years in the past. the caramel-filled ones went down well with the cider i had from the previous night. a week later i found myself in any empty, warm garage in the south of town, edgbaston. the house seemed empty as well but i didn't want to risk being found. so i lay some cardboard in a corner and had an early night. the fireworks telling my sleeping mind secrets of a world parallel to my own. its a wealthy area. i had a friend from there once. but what friends i had, have all forgotten me by now. the family setting is both comforting and upsetting. but that night, the sound of the fireworks made that neighbourhood feel like home. i have a dog. but he's not really mine. i'll explain later. i have an old hiking bag full of clothes. its torn in places but it serves its many purposes well; i like to think it makes me look respectable, that my shabby appearance is due to my many years of traveling, not desperation and bare bones poverty. i like to think that the bag gives people space in their mind's eye to see me as more than i am. a homeless man who has lost almost everything. i have a library card. an hour on the computers every day. and access to all the many worlds that i never took interest in as a boy. and i have a woman. she lives in paris. it's no lie. and sometimes she writes me by email, but more often i write to her, long laments and groanful longing letters that must sicken her to the stomach. and i have my guitar. this is me, and soon you'll learn more.