ottffssent

I'm sick of counting.

I don't want to, any more.

I don't want to know how old I am.

I don't care who's keeping score.

I don't want to know my height,

or my cup size, or my weight.

I don't care what year it is,

nor the time, nor the date.

I don't want to count my chickens,

I don't want to count my blessings.

And I'm sick of counting calories

and foregoing Caesar dressing.

I don't want to cross off boxes, 

on a calendar, with a pen.

I don't want to count down the days until

I see you again.

Keys

Keys are nice,

in a way. New keys,

especially, are nice.

They're nice because 

they mean you have 

the right to go into 

somewhere, or to open

something, that other 

people can't.

They mean freedom
and safety, all at once.
And that's nice.

And it's nice the way,
when you're walking home at night,
you can grip them in your hand,
real tight.

And oh, it's not nice,

the way they make

your hands smell all

metallic, or the way

they taste a bit like 

blood when you hold 

them in your mouth,

or the way they don't

fit in the way you want

them to or the way

they hide themselves.
Lose themselves, even.

Like any other thing.

But it's nice the way 

that if you throw them

up, they sing.

Banana Pancakes

For breakfast there were two options:

Toast, or banana pancakes.

The toast was vile.

The banana pancakes, on the other hand, were divine.

Always. The bananas, soft and fleshy, piping hot and sweet. 

The edges crisped in the grease of a pan with years of 

burnt in grime. 

(Wherein lies, of course, what made them good to eat.)

You'd sprinkle sugar on yours;

On mine, I'd pour 

the condensed milk they brought us, with our tea

(and you'd give all of yours to me). 

My breakfasts were banal before this;

and ever after, too.

Now muesli seems so meagre

and my mornings are so blue,

But I couldn't eat banana pancakes.

No. 

Not without you.

Beached

We were swimming beneath the
crystalline sea.
Pale visitors to an
alien realm, holding
wrinkled hands and
kicking rubber feet and
gazing into misted glass,
where eyes should be.

The currents
dashed us into bright corals
and we bled bright blood,
and the sunlight burnt our backs.
But we felt nothing.
We were submerged in
silent beauty.

Then the salty water began
to seep into our lungs.
The tide began to tug us away.
We kissed;
and then
we drowned.

I awoke alone
in a distant land.
Bones cold as lead.

Washed up onto a
single bed.

A Box of Photographs - Enambelas

Photograph #128

This is a photograph of an aeroplane window. This time, it is taken from the outside. The window is glazed with the reflection of clouds and a clear blue sky. Looking through it, a small, pale face, framed by fair hair. A girl. She is staring straight into the lens. Her blue eyes watery, piercing. Sad.

-x-

You put the photograph down and feel as though you have woken from a dream. You don't know how much time has passed since you opened up the box, but outside, the light is growing dim. You look at the last photo and realise, suddenly, that it was impossible. Such a photo should not exist. Who could have taken it? The plane was in the air; no one could possibly have taken it. You flip through them again, scrutinising every image, finding plenty more in which the identity, or existence, of the photographer is uncertain, problematic. Many, of course, could have been taken using a timer setting. But not all of them.  And certainly not the last photograph. You notice that the improbable photographer seems to have been attached to the girl, present during her outward journey, lingering after the boy had left. As though the photographs, though not taken by her, were personal to her, were representative of her memories, her psyche. And though they aren't all taken from her perspective, you wonder if, perhaps, these are her indeed her memories, her version of events. Indonesia 2012, as told by the girl. Somehow consecrated as physical images. An unsatisfactory conclusion, logically speaking. But you feel that somehow it is the only solution that makes sense. You clear the photographs away and place them back in order in the box you found them in. With the utmost care. As though you were reaching into the girl's mind itself, to put back the memories where you found them.

A Box of Photographs - Limabelas

Photograph #126

The interior of a hotel room, one you don't recognise, but suspect you have seen before. From the outside. The girl is lying on the bed, on her side. Head resting on her arm. Gazing at the boy, who is kneeling on the ground, shoving something into a large travelpack. His brow furrowed in concentration. Hers in sadness.

Photograph #127

The boy is standing up now. The travelpack on his back, enormous. He has the girl in his arms, her face buried in his chest. His lips pressed against her head, his eyes closed. Her arms hang limply down at her sides. You put the photo down because it makes your heart feel like lead.

Photograph #127

This is a photograph of a hotel room, from the outside. Door, window, table, chairs. You've definitely seen it before. This time it's day time. There is nothing outside, nothing on the table, nothing hanging from the chairs. But though the curtains are drawn, you can tell that there is still someone inside. Only one, small, sad person. Lying on the bed, face down. Or crumpled in a heap on the floor, or curled up against the door. You wonder how you could possibly know this. You just do. Because your leaden heart told you it was so.

A Box of Photographs - Empatbelas

Photograph #124

A photograph of coconut trees, whose thin, grey trunks are incredibly tall, incredibly smooth. These two qualities are something you notice especially, because at the top of one of them is a man. Barefoot. Holding on with one arm, and not a rope in sight. Your head reels thinking about it. He is easily forty feet above the ground. In the other arm, he holds a machete. You notice that fallen coconuts are lying on the ground below, and that he is stretching up to cut down more. He would reach up, and hack, and hack, and then the coconuts would fall, inevitably, nothing to stop them but the ground. Thud. Thud. The sound of an ending.

Photograph #125

The young couple sitting on a log. The trunk, it appears, of a coconut tree. They are facing away from the camera, looking out towards the sea. They have their backpacks at their sides. They are holding hands. A boat is approaching. On the back of the photo it says, 'Waiting for the ferry back to Bali'.

A Box of Photographs - Tigabelas

Photograph #88

This is a photograph of the girl, from behind, in a blue-tiled bathroom. She is wearing a white sarong, tied at the waist, but nothing else. Her blonde hair falls down her back, which is sunburnt. Rather badly. Above her waist, you can see a white band, left by her bikini top.

Photograph #89

A photograph of the boy, stretched out in a hammock, a cigarette in hand. The hammock is tied between two wooden poles of a hut on the beach. Beyond him, wooden boats painted white and orange, blue and pink, and a sea the colour of the sky, late on a winter's afternoon.

Photograph #90

Another hammock, this time inhabited by the girl, curled up like a cat with a book whose cover you cannot make out. The strings of the hammock are cutting into the flesh on her shoulders. You get the impression that the both of them have been there, in their hammocks, for a long time, and that they have no intention of moving. In the photo, at least, they would be there forever. Forever in those hammocks, by the beach, in that island paradise. Yet, you think, a little forlornly, those photographs are the closest to forever they could possibly get. In every other way, they're gone.


Photographs #91-106

A series of photographs taken in quick succession, all of which show the same dirt lane, lined on either side with shrubs and palms and banana trees. The first shows the boy on a bicycle, at the top of the lane. In each photo he gets closer and closer, eventually passing by and continuing off round the corner, out of the frame. You hold the photographs at the edge and flick through them like a flip-book, watching him cycle jerkily, like a stop-motion film.

Photographs #107-123

This time, the girl cycles down the lane, coming from the other direction. When you flip through them quickly you can see her hair blowing in the breeze. As she passes the camera she holds up two fingers in a V shape and sticks out her tongue.

Photograph #124

This is a photograph of a sunset. Its beauty is otherworldly, impossible. The sun has gone down behind a faraway mountain, miles across the sea. The sky is spangled by streaks of cloud in gold and peach and red and pink, colours which fall into the sea which jumbles them up with blues and greys. It looks like a painting, a post-impressionist oeuvre by Signac or even Claude Monet. The light cast around is warm and pinkish, unlike any natural light you've ever seen. In the sea, two silhouettes stand, black against the glorious light.

A Box of Photographs - Duabelas

Photograph #83

A photo of two green coconuts with the tops hacked off, sitting in the dirt beside some wooden steps. Brown ants swarm around the openings and lead off, in long lines, out of the picture.

Photograph #84

Underwater, a beautiful coral reef. Ornate and alien formations, and colours you don't have names for. Fish, like in the photograph of the turtle, only more of them, in wilder variations, with stranger shapes. And in their midst, a bright cord of silver writhing up towards the surface, banded by thin stripes of black. A sea snake. It chills your blood,  a little. On the back of the photo it says, '"Verrry poisonous but not until dead" - Ozzy'.

Photograph #85

This is a photograph of a parrot-fish, underwater.

Photograph #86

This is a photograph of a parrot-fish, out of the water. Held up in one hand by an Indonesian man, whose other hand is doing a 'thumbs up', whose face is doing a wild grin. On a table before him lie two dozen more fish, all shapes and sizes, eyes and mouths wide open in the twin shock of air and death.

Photograph #87

This is a photograph of a parrot-fish, on a plate. Unrecognisable, of course, but on the back of the photo it says, 'Grilled parrot-fish at Wiwin Café'. Accompanied by chips, vegetables, wedges of lemon and candlelight.

A Box of Photographs - Sebelas

Photograph #80 

A thatched wooden bungalow on stilts, with a large veranda. Two chairs, a table, and a hammock. Outside, two bicycles, one silver, one pale green. On the back it says, 'Abdi Fantastik Homestay, Gilli Air'.

Photograph #81

A photograph of the girl, walking down a sandy path, beside the sea. She is wearing an oversized, multicoloured vest over her bikini, and her hair is piled up messily on the top of her head. She is carrying two large green coconuts with straws sticking out of a small hole in the top, one in each hand. The sun is beating down, and her forehead is glistening with sweat. She's biting her lip. There's some coconut water on her vest. On the back it says, 'Special delivery!'

Photograph #82

This is a photo of a palm tree. At night. But the way it is lit up, by some ethereal, unearthly light... the way its fronds have blurred and seem to move before your eyes... just something about it, something you can't put your finger on... is terrifying. You can't stop staring at it. It fills the whole photograph. It fills your whole retina. You turn it over. On the back is written... nothing.

A Box of Photographs - Sepuluh

Photograph #75

The young couple are on a boat; not a large one, like before, but a small, wooden vessel, full of European tourists and their enormous backpacks. The girl is crouching on the bench, her back to the camera, head bent over the side of the boat. The boy has a hand on her back, and he is laughing. On the back of the photo it says, 'Sea-sick on the ferry to Gili Trawangan'.

Photograph #76

A photo of the girl, sat on a curb, the verge between the beach and a busy street, full of more tourists, bent double under huge rucksacks. She is smiling. Pleased, you imagine, to be back on dry land. A small grey kitten is rubbing its head against her ankle; she is caressing its back with her fingertips.

Photograph #77

An underwater photograph. The young couple in snorkels and swimming costumes, pale blue skin, the girl's hair floating out like gold tentacles. She is holding onto the rope of an anchor, and the boy is holding her hand. A few feet away from them is a large turtle. The turtle doesn't seem afraid; in fact it is eating coral, entirely unphased by its audience. Around it swarm colourful fish, spotted and striped. The couples eyes aren't visible through the masks' lenses. But you can imagine the awe they must have felt, to be so close to such a beautiful creature. And to be experiencing it together.

Photograph #78

It is night. In the photograph the boy is sitting at a table, amongst trees, on the beach. In the trees hang bright coloured lanterns. The girl, you assume, has moved the camera as the photo was being taken; leaving streaks of coloured light. The boy's face is lit up with the flash. He is laughing, eyes closed, head thrown back, bright lights dancing around him in the darkness.

Photograph #79

This photo is unusual. A double exposure, you surmise, taken at night, although the slow shutter speed has let enough moonlight in that it could almost be day time. But not quite. The camera has been left on the sand. To the right is the sea. In the centre is a bamboo bench. On it, sit the girl and boy. Twice. That is to say, there are two of each of them, side by side. Girl, boy, girl, boy. The first two firmer, more real. The second, transparent, like ghosts. Past selves. You can figure out how they did it, of course. But it unsettles you, none the less.

A Box of Photographs - Sembilan

Photograph #69

A photograph of a small grey gecko climbing down a bamboo wall, taken from below, as though the photographer is lying in bed. On the back of the photo, it says 'Mini-pote!'

Photograph #70

A photograph of the young man's feet, in the battered brown Nikes. They are dusty; the white swoosh is murky. He is standing on a fallen tree, in a forest. The lighting is soft, sunlight filtered through leaves. The lining of the shoes is blood red. It stands out starkly against a backdrop of dark emerald.

Photograph #71

This is a photograph of the girl. Her hair is tied into a loose ponytail, and she is wearing her tropical-print dress, which blends with the colours of the forest around her. She was sitting down, on a seat made from a log wedged horizontally between two thin trees, but she seems to be getting up, suddenly. Her head is turned to the side with an expression between shock and fear and disgust, and her arms are midway up to her face in order to protect herself from some invisible attacker. Perhaps some kind of enormous jungle wasp.

Photograph #72

Another photograph of the girl, only this time, she is submerged in a dark pool of water, right up to her chest.  Behind her, a wall of black rock, and from above a cascade of water, falling onto her shoulders. She is wearing a black bikini top. Against the dark water, dark rock and dark material her skin is pale, her outstretched arms ivory-white.

Photograph #73

The motorbike, parked. The young man standing beside it as the petrol tank is filled up. Not by a pump. By a tiny girl, no older than 7 years old, who is pouring in petrol from a glass bottle, through a plastic funnel. Lifting the bottle above her head, her tiny brown hands clutching it tightly. He is smiling down at her.

Photograph #74

A photograph of the beach, taken from a wooden hut. Walking across the shot are a herd of brown cattle, in single file, heads hanging low, made heavy by cowbells and thick, curved horns. On the back of the photo it says, 'Cows on the beach, Kuta, Lombok'.

A Box of Photographs - Delapan

Photograph #63

The couple on a bike again, this time zooming past through a valley. To the left of them is a vast, flat plain of rich farmland, and beyond it, tall arid mountains.

Photograph #64

Here the motorbike is parked at the side of the road. The boy is sitting sideways on the seat, holding a box of strawberries. His knees are sunburnt from hours on the bike, his hair slightly flat from the helmet, which sits at his feet, glinting in the sun.

Photograph #65

This is another photo of the motorbike, only this time, the boy is riding it alone, up a steep hill. Several metres behind him, the girl, following on foot, back weighed down by her rucksack, head weighed down by her helmet. The boy seems to be laughing; the girl, too, but in a different way. A self-deriding way. Around them, the trees are less tropical, more temperate.

Photograph #66

A photograph of the young man, not on the bike this time, but standing on the edge of a precipice. Behind him, the valley they previously drove through, farms and houses tiny squares, greenhouses glittering under the sun. The mountains beyond are blue, and in the sky, a single, small white cloud hangs, directly about his head. Like a halo, or a private rain-cloud, just for him.

Photograph #67

A different motorbike, parked at a different roadside. On it are three young Indonesian boys, no older than 11, all laughing, squirming, falling all over each other at the idea, it seems, of being in the photograph. And all of them holding a cigarette.

Photograph #68

A double bed in a room that looks, strangely, like the galley of a ship; the walls, the low ceiling, the window, all made from bamboo and thatched palm leaves. The bed is empty, save for two rucksacks, contents spilling out in tangles, like guts. The light is fading. On the back it says, 'Homestay, Tete Batu'.

A Box of Photographs - Tujuh

Photograph #55

Another guest room, viewed from the outside. Room number nine. It appears to be the last in a long terrace. Outside, two bamboo armchairs, a bamboo table. Two pairs of shoes. In one of the chairs sits the young man, shirtless, smiling into the camera. The walls behind him have been painted a pale pistachio green, which is being lit from one side by the morning light. On the back of the photograph, it says, 'Pondok Indah Homestay, Senaru'.

Photograph #56 

A photograph of a shrub, in a small garden. The morning sunlight has not yet reached it; it is bathed in shade. It is a fruit tree, although you are not quite certain what fruit it bears. Most of the fruit are small and green. They look a little like limes. But these are not yet ripe. You know this because one of the tree's branches is bowing down, bent over with the weight of a single fruit. Bright yellow. And enormous. The shape of a lemon, yes, but the size of a melon. Someone has wrapped a long thin strip of white cloth around it, and twined it up round the branch. As a child might wrap themselves in toilet paper, in an irreverent homage to a deceased Pharaoh. This is to protect it from insects, perhaps, or from falling, once it is ripe.

Photograph #57

This is a photograph of the young couple, together, rather far away from the photographer, so that their whole bodies are visible, made small by the enormity of the landscape around them. They are standing on what looks at first like a long, thin bridge, but on closer inspection, you realise that it is a concrete aqueduct. The dark water is visible between concrete slats. On either side of them is a precipice. You imagine the rush of the water beneath their feet, the metres of empty air beneath them before the forest floor. It gives you a sense of vertigo. They are smiling, but the boy's hand grips firmly onto the handrail. He is holding onto the girl by her shoulder. They are both wearing shorts, his the shabby denim ones seen in every photo before, hers short and black. Both have long tanned legs, his scrawny, hers quite the opposite. A navy t-shirt and a loose, pale vest. Short scruffy brown hair, long scruffy blonde.
On the back is written, 'Waterfall "Trek"'.

Photograph #58

A picture of the girl, surrounded by local women. They are all smiling, genuine smiles that show real excitement about the photograph, about the encounter with European tourists. The girl's smile is even wider. She has her arm around the women closest to her; the contrast is comical. She completely dwarfs them. Her bare legs continue on long after theirs finish. Their heads only reach her shoulders. The dark skin of their faces, their bodies covered entirely in dark, patterned fabric, only emphasise the largeness of the girl, her fairness, her relative nakedness. But it is not an unkind comparison. Neither party suffers a loss of dignity, of particular beauty. It is merely a juxtaposition of two worlds, a demonstration of difference. Yet similarity, also.

Photograph #59

A close up of a white moth on a dark rock. The moth's wings are mottled delicately, in indecipherable grey patterns like words washed out of a newspaper page. The rock is gritty, glossy wet. The moth is covered in tiny droplets of dew, round as crystal balls, that catch the sunlight like jewels.

Photograph #60

In the background of this photograph is a waterfall, a thin white stream of water cascading from a dizzying height. In the foreground, a mossy boulder, adorned with a wooden sign, with peeling white paint and neat red letters. It says, 'Welcome to Tiu Kelep.'

Photograph #61

This is a photo of the boy. He appears to be in a long, dark tunnel, though he is standing by an opening, cut into the rock, letting in leaves and vines and a big swatch of greeny light. He is looking out of it, and upwards, presumably at the treetops, the sky. His features are etched strongly in light and shade, a greenish Caravaggio painting. You then realise that he is knee-deep in fast-flowing water. The aqueduct, you decide, passing through a man-made tunnel in the mountainside. You picture yourself being there, in the dark, the cold water pulling your legs away, down the mountain. You shiver.

Photograph #62

In the photograph, the boy and girl are sitting, cross legged, on the floor of a raised bamboo hut. With them, a local couple, a young, smiling man and a beautiful woman in a colourful sarong. They are eating, vegetables and rice. Two of them with their fingers, the other two with spoons. On the ground beneath the hut, an ornate rooster and a sleeping dog. On the back it reads, 'Dinner with the "Best Cheapest Waterfalls Guide"'.

A Box of Photographs - Enam

Photograph #21

The boy and girl on a motorbike, viewed from behind. A long road stretches out into the distance; the bike is small, dwarfed by the vastness of the scenery. Hills and fields and coconut trees. They are driving into the rising sun, everything is blessed with white-gold light. The roadside is lined with white hibiscus flowers, glowing like stars against night black leaves. You wonder, once more, who took the photograph. Or if, indeed, it was just a memory, projected onto glossy paper. But whose memory?

Photographs #22-34

These photographs seem to have been taken in quick succession, as though the photographer held down the shutter button, leaving it to take photo after photo as the bike flew past. They must have been taken by the girl. You imagine her, one hand round the boy's waist, the other holding the camera. Both hands holding on for dear life. Click click click. Dangerous photographs of a fleeting landscape, falling into the past faster than the eye could take in. You flip through and feel a little as though you, too, were sitting on the back of a motorbike zooming round Lombok's southern coast. Photos of school children and chickens and herds of cows, trees and rice paddies, mothers and babies, wooden huts and the great, majestic domes of village mosques, looming up, blue and green and gold, out of the banana trees. Click, click, click.

Photograph #35

This photo startles you, slightly. In it, an enormous manta ray. Beached, not on the sea shore, but on dry, dusty earth. Dead. Its vast wings imply a bygone grace, now irrevocably lost. Its great great back is parched, and from its wide, gentle mouth, dark blood falls into the dirt.
On the back of the photograph is written, 'Fish market, Tanjung Luar'.

Photograph #36

This is a photograph, you imagine, from the same market place, only, there are no fish. The picture shows and old man, sat on a mat on the ground. Spread out on the mat are hundreds of small, flame-red chillies. The man is cast in shadow, but the chillies are bathed in a swathe of sunlight, and they glow, fire-bright. The man's face is edged with a faint red glow. His eyes are turned upwards towards the photographer, his mouth, open in amazement, or shock. Before his unexpected western customers, words, it seems, have failed him.

Photographs #37-54

Back on the road; more photographs taken from the back of a motorbike. They passed through small towns and villages; roadside fruit stalls, all-purpose stores, mechanics, mosques, rows of roosters in palm-leaf cages. A school with a long line of school girls streaming in, white head scarves stretching out along the road until vanishing point. They pass onwards through volcanic countryside, rice paddies cut into swollen black earth, huge dark boulders, beaches with coal-black sand. All the while, the mountains in the background loom larger in each shot, and the road slopes steeper up hill. The last photograph of the series is stunning. A wide vista in the dying evening light, showing acres of rice fields, penned in by hills draped in rich forest. And in the background, an enormous mountain, wreathed in white cloud. On the back of the photo it says, 'A view of Rinjani, from Senaru.'

A Box of Photographs - Lima

Photograph #17

A table, laid with two plates, two knives, two forks, and two tall glass cups of what appears to be tea. On the plates are banana pancakes. They look delicious.

Photograph #18

This is a photo of some trees, tall and leafy, with low hanging branches. Ordinary trees; only, they are growing out of the sea. Their boughs hang over the beach. In the centre of the photograph, a grey monkey sits on a branch, causing it to bow down towards the sand. Its mouth is open in a wide scream, and you can just make out its tiny, sharp teeth. It is screaming at a small brown and white dog, standing in the sand. The dog is barking. Behind the monkey, smaller monkeys are visible, partially hidden in the leaves, looking on as the conflict unfolds.

Photograph #19

Some sea shells laid out on the sand, bathed in sunshine. All different shapes and sizes; it seems they have been carefully selected, arranged as a curator might arrange ancient artefacts. One large cowrie shell with a speckled back. A piece of coral that looks like honey comb. Another the shape of a twig, the colour of blood. A strange formation that looks like a volcano. A few tiny spiralled shells, the kind in which a hermit crab might reside. And languishing on half a cockle shell is a minuscule starfish, still glinting with water, although starting to dry. Bright orange-red. Legs not quite spread enough, one longer than the others. It looks like a tiny palm tree. You feel sorry for it. But you understand. The human desire to possess beauty, even if such possession causes only destruction, distress. Picking flowers. Putting birds in cages. Taking tiny starfish out of the sea, as a gift to your lover.

Photograph #20

This is another photograph taken of the sea, at night. Another long exposure, only this time, longer. More light has been let in. The stars are visible, more so than they ever are in reality. Bright white points on an orange glowing sky. On beach, a dark, blurry figure stands, at the sea shore, in the eerie light. The girl. Not keeping still enough to be captured, she errs on the boundary of sand and sea, of our world and the next. Like a ghost.

A Box of Photographs - Empat

Photograph #12

This is a photograph of the girl. She is in the foreground, to the bottom right of the shot. Behind her stretches a vast, silver sea, gleaming under a milk blue sky. Beyond it, an arid blue peninsula, far away. The girl is leaning back against a rusting white railing, cast in contre-jour by the dazzling light. Her round sunglasses hide her eyes, but her teeth are exposed in a wide smile. Her fair hair picked up a little but the breeze; errant strands catch the light from behind and glow like wire filaments. On the back of the photograph it says, 'The ferry to Lombok'.

Photograph #13

This is a photograph of the boy. He is lying down, head resting on the girl's lap in the foreground, legs stretching away into the centre of the image, feet blurring out of focus, though you can see that he is wearing battered brown Nikes and torn denim shorts, and that his legs are skinny and tanned deep brown. His eyes are closed. In the background, the deck of the ship, chipped and rusting paintwork in white and pallid green, the green of hospital corridors. The funnel is traffic cone orange, soiled black at its mouth by years of smoke. You cannot smell the sea-spray, the black grease, the scent of the boy's sun-warmed hair. But you can imagine it.

Photograph #14

This is a photograph of a small courtyard, full of white sand. In its centre, a sparse flower bed, lined with coral, shells and stones. Further back, and to the left, is a tree, and a bamboo hut, raised off the ground on stilts, lacking walls but sheltered by a thatched roof. The courtyard is surrounded on two sides by a fence made from slender strips of wood. In the middle the fence opens out; the white sand spills out and leads the eye down the beach to a pale turquoise sea, which deepens into blue towards the horizon. To the right there are three bungalows, terraced in a row. Each with a door, a window, two chairs and a table. The walls are painted a deep turquoise, making the sea seem pale in comparison, like sun-bleached fabric. The chairs are a lurid jade green. Beside the bungalows is a shrub with tall branches, whose flowers are a flamboyant magenta, contrasting starkly with the greens and blues. Around the yard, a black rooster and two hens are frozen, mid sand scratch, mid feather ruffle, mid peck. On the back of the photos is written, 'Melati Homestay'.

Photograph #15

This is a photograph of some items of clothing. Dirty, shabby denim shorts. A wine-red checked shirt. A sun dress with a dark green jungle print, with mother-of-pearl buttons. A brown leather belt. You recognise the former two as belonging to the young man; the dress must be the girl's. The lighting is a little subdued, as though night is falling. The sand on which the clothes are lying has taken on a violet tint. The clothes are not folded, merely discarded, haphazardly, like shedded skin. You imagine the couple bathing in the blood-warm sea, feet sinking into the soft sand, kissing with salty lips. But then, who could have taken the photograph?

Photograph #16

This photograph is a long exposure, taken at night. It shows a black sea, sandwiched between sand dimly lit by lamplight, and a vast sky, slightly reddish, though not as light-polluted as it might have been in the city. On the horizon is a long row of bright lights, tiny beacons dancing between sea and sky. You surmise that these are buoys, there to warn ships away from the coral reef. The couple must have wondered the same thing. However, you turn the photo over and see that on the back is written, 'Night fishermen hunting sleeping octopus, Kuta, Lombok.'

A Box of Photographs - Tiga

Photograph #8

This is a photograph of a dark grey rucksack. It is not on anyone's back. It is being held to the petrol tank of a motorbike, presumably the one from photograph #7, with a green and grey bungee cable. The cable is stretched tight against the bag; it bulges out on either side of it. It looks like a small grey creature being asphyxiated by a thin little python. You wonder why this photograph has been taken.

Photograph #9

Another photograph of the motorbike. Parked, this time, at a petrol pump. The bag has been removed in order to fill the tank, but the tank is not being filled. The young man, one hand on the leather seat, is bent over, head craned round to observe the underside of the tank. His other hand is over his mouth. Beside him, crouched on the ground, is the pump operator. You know that he is the pump operator because he is wearing a red cap and polo shirt, the same red as the pump behind him, emblazoned with the same logo. He, too, is looking at the underside of the tank. His face is grave. You suspect there is some kind of problem with the bike.

Photograph #10

This photograph confirms that there was, indeed, a problem. Dark petrol splashes are shown on the concrete forecourt. Dripping down, you assume, from a hole in the tank. To the left, the bungee cable lies on the ground. Its sharp green hook shining, wet, you deduce, with petrol. It is coiled up, snake-like. Guiltily. In disgrace.

Photograph #11

The young couple, and the motorbike. It is parked, now, at the side of the road. They are sitting in front of it, perched on their helmets. Hers a metallic burgundy, his white with a blue stripe. He is surly, smoking. She is wearing round, tortoiseshell-rimmed sunglasses with dark green lenses. Her face is dirty. She is smiling. A 'making light of the situation' smile. Behind them, banana trees. Yellow and green. Sunshine and shade.

Photograph #12

The hotel room window from photo #7. The curtains drawn, the lights off. The inhabitants could be sleeping. They could be awake. You can't tell. But, like the first photo, you know they are inside again. There is a packet of Marlborough lights on the bamboo table, and a light blue towel hanging, impatiently, on a chair.

A Box of Photographs - Dua

Photograph #4

This is a photograph of a large crowd of people. The are almost exclusively dark skinned men. (You conclude that they must be Indonesian). They are almost exclusively all holding up pieces of white cardboard, emblazoned with the names of strangers. They are all standing behind a metal barrier, and all facing vaguely in the same direction. Towards the lens of the camera. In their midst is the previously alluded to anomaly: a young European man, with dishevelled, dark brown hair, several days of stubble, wearing a burgundy checked shirt. A smile emerging, starting with his two front teeth. Eyes locked on the photographer. No name card is necessary to determine for whom he had been waiting.

Photograph #5

The young man from photo #4 is embracing a girl. Although only the back of her head is visible, judging by her attire it is the same girl from photo #2, and you imagine that it was she who took photo #4, that it was she for whom the young man had been waiting. Which calls into question, a little, who took photo #2, and indeed, who had taken this photograph. Puzzled, you continue to study it. Both of the boys arms are wrapped around her neck. His right cheek is pressed against her right ear. His mouth is obscured by his elbow, but from his eyes it can be deduced that he is smiling. A reunion, you imagine, after a long separation. You smile, too.

Photograph #6

A photograph of a motorbike. The young man is driving, the girl sat behind him, arms around his waist. They appear to be going fast; her hair is flying out from under her helmet, and the background is blurred. Her face is pale. Her eyes are squeezed tight shut. You wonder, once more, who had taken this photograph. Then you place it down on the table and pick up the next.

Photograph #7

This is a photograph of a hotel room window. Room number 19. It is night. Curtains are drawn; no light shines out from behind them. In front of the window, a bamboo table, and on either side of it, two bamboo chairs, both empty. You imagine that whoever is inside the room is sleeping. Equally, it could be possible that they are not sleeping at all, that they are lying awake in bed. Talking, making up for lost time. Fingers interlaced like sea otters trying not to be cast adrift in a vast and merciless sea. But really, all you can see in the photograph, is a hotel room window. On the back of the photo is written, 'Kuta, Bali'.

A Box of Photographs - Satu

In front of you there is a box. You open it. Inside it, photographs. Some held together in packs, others, singular. Some labelled, others not. On the underside of the box's lid, it says, 'Indonesia, September 2012'. A long time ago. You wonder, for a moment, if digital cameras had been invented by then. Surely they had? Yes, they had. Perhaps these photos had been printed out, although you can't imagine why. Perhaps they were taken on an old fashioned camera, with film, like you'd seen in museums sometimes. Flipping through, you see that these are the holiday photos of a young couple. You don't know who they are. They'd be dead by now, in any case. 

You take the photos carefully out of the box, and see that each pack of photographs has been labelled with a single word, in some strange tongue. Tujuh. Duabelas. Sepuluh. You read them into your phone and the search engine tells you they are Indonesian numbers. It lists them in order. So you arrange the photographs  accordingly, and begin to study them, slowly, laying them out one after the other on the table. Trying to piece some kind of story together. Some of the photos are strange. Inexplicable, even. You can't work out why they were taken. Or sometimes, how they were taken. Who took them. It seems like, rather than being ordinary holiday photos, these are fragments of someone's memory. Which might become possible in the next few years, scientists have said. But back then, it certainly wasn't. 

-x-

Photograph #1

A photograph of an aeroplane window. Taken from the inside, looking out. If the window was elsewhere located, there might have been a view of tiny fields and houses, of the land being left behind. Or of clouds, bulging, billowing, catching the breeze and refracting soft sunlight like clean white sheets hung to dry on a bright spring day. But there are no clouds in the photograph, nor can you see the earth below. This is because the window in the picture is above the wing. It cuts clean across the composition, obstructing the view and leaving only a small, obscure polygon of clear blue sky.

Photograph #2

In this photograph, the aeroplane window is still visible. You assume that it is the same window, but this is, in reality, impossible to discern. This is because the window is now closed; the plastic blind drawn down. A rather drear subject; one perhaps unworthy of photography. The window, however, is not the principal subject of this photo. In the foreground is a young woman. She is lying down, stretched across three seats, her feet jutting out towards the aisle. She is wearing black, loose fitting trousers, with an abstract white print, like bleach stains, or the lights cast through windows onto walls by cars passing in the night. A mint green hooded jumper. Thick beige socks. She has long hair, dark blonde at the roots and golden in the middle, but almost platinum at the tips. It falls in a mess across her face. Her mouth remains visible. Pulled into a slight smile; if she is asleep, as she appears to be, she is content. The lighting is soft and beige, like her socks. 

Photograph # 3

This is a photograph of a large Koi carp. Ivory and violent orange, almost red. Its head emerging from dark water, its mouth open in a big wide 'O'. The photograph has captured the movement of the water around it, displaced by its gaping mouth; spots of brilliant white reflect off droplets and the ripples. The kind of light made not by the sun, but by neon strip lights. The kind you might find, for instance, at an airport terminal. 

A Modern Odyssey

I'm about to go on a long journey to a faraway land, on a whim.
Fear and excitement come in waves, heavy and dizzying. My stomach sinks and rises. I've felt like this for days. Weeks, even; it started quietly but slowly grew stronger, building like a storm in the distance, a tsunami swelling up, a tornado spinning out of control. And on the journey's eve, here I am, strangely calm, although my insides quake a little, and my mouth is dry. I feel like I could vomit. I feel like I could cry. I feel numb. And  I feel euphoric. No feeling can beat this. None at all. This is the feeling that comes before all adventures. This is the unknown, the good kind of unknown, the kind we dream about, the kind we long for. This is what entices sailors to the sea, this is what lures climbers up mountains and astronauts into space and divers fathoms downwards into the deep. And somewhere in that unknown, lost in that great abyss, like a needle in a haystack, a tiny blue dot in the universe, there you are. Waiting for me. And I am coming to find you. A modern Odyssey, condensed into a clean, clinical journey of a mere 16 hours, facilitated by a flying machine the likes of which the Greeks could only have dreamt of. Flight delays and missed connections instead of Circe and Cyclops.

 I don't know what will happen when I arrive. I don't know if I will arrive. But I'm going into the unknown and I'm not looking back.

T11

Feet line up on starting blocks. Not two, but four. His right arm, her left, tied together at the wrist.

They can both hear the roar of the crowd, but only he can see the immensity of it. 

Silence descends. They both wait for the sound of the starting gun.

Bang.

And away they run. Him toward the finish line, but her, only into darkness. She sprints blindly, although her body knows the distance, how many strides, how much sweat, how much agony. She can feel him at her side. His every step in synch with her own. His breath. His heartbeat. She can hear the other runners and their guides, she can hear how close they are behind her. She can feel her speed, the rush of air against her face.  It is an image of extraordinary beauty; of cooperation, of trust, of love. Human solidarity. Legs moving in unison, holding hands, they lead one another to victory.

She can't see the journalists, the photographers, her opponents collapsed in defeat. Nor can she see the flag of her country in its majestic ascent. But she can hear the cacophonous cheer of the crowd suddenly hushed by the first glorious chords of the national anthem. 

She can't see her gold medal. 

But she can feel its solid weight around her neck.

Tube Doggy Dog

I saw a dog on the tube it was a Pomeranian and it had a little red tongue and it was tired so it lay down and everyone on the tube liked it. Its owner let everyone stroke it because she was a nice lady.

The End

Alibi

We like to think we're
fun without it,
But we aren't,
although we try.
But the poison
calms our nerves.
It lets us love.
It lets us lie.

And every bitter swallow gives
a golden alibi.

Deathcalator

A small brown moth, mottled and muted,
sat in the crevice of an escalator step.
I almost didn't see him. I wish I hadn't;
I was deeply saddened by his imminent death.
Fragile little leaf against cold steel,
heading for doom.

I know how you feel.

London Ey-Yeh

A man approached us today outside the Table Tennis arena. He was foreign, although I couldn't quite discern where from. He asked us a question. We answered. Then we asked him if he was enjoying his time in London. Oh yes, he said. I've seen Big Ben, he said. Big Ben, Buckingham Palace. London ey-yeh.

London Ey-yeh? 

Ey--yeh. 

Ey-yeh?

Eyyyyyy-yeeh. You know, big wheel. 

OH! London Eye!

Ah yes. London aaiiiii.

After he left, we looked at each other, and one of us said, you have lovely ey-yesssss! and, tired from a long day of being extremely nice to hoards of flag-bearing, stupid-question-asking visitors, we all doubled over in illicit, politically incorrect, hysterical mirth. 

For the rest of the shift, all we needed to get us going again was ey-yeh.

Sorry! I have something in my ey-yeh! 

I've got my ey-yeh on you!

Ey-yeh.

Glass Bottom

Sometimes you can look forward to something so much, and for so long, that you don't want it to actually happen. You stop wanting it to come quicker. You want the days to drag out, the hours to crawl, the seconds to slither at snail's pace. Because the quicker it comes the quicker it will be over. The first sip of a cold beverage is bliss; but as you drink deeper, each gulp brings you closer to an empty glass. But that's just what life is. Such an attitude is pointless, painful. You just have to savour it all the more, in the knowledge that it will come to an end.

iHateyou

If my iPhone was

a human being I would

punch him in the face.

Over the Lazy Dog

From periphery you dash,
rather queer-shaped,
for a cat.
Your gait too ragged,
coat too rugged,
tail too thick for that.

You are a dirty dog,
you are a wolf without
a pack.

Dark firelight drained from
rusty lamps and caught
your rusty back.

Then you scampered into shadow;

and your tattered form
collapsed,
into black.

Silence

My iPod broke a long time ago.

So I stopped listening to music.

I walked to lectures in silence, waited for buses in silence, spent long train journeys in rhythmic, rattling silence.

I ran in silence.

Unaccustomed to silence, my mind made up for it.

By thinking.

By composing its own thoughtful music. Talking things over. Thinking things through. Making suggestions, asking questions, rolling absurdities around, tonguing them like cherry stones. Digging up images like boxes of old photos, flicking through them, making collages, making montages. Igniting old feelings, touching nerves. Causing pain. Wringing itself out and letting the cold juices of self-loathing sink down my spine. Making itself smile. Making itself laugh. Writing itself love letters, penning adventures, misadventures, spinning out dreams like an old lady at a loom. Losing itself.

Then I got an iPhone and some new headphones.

My silent bus journeys were suddenly filled with glorious sound, my walks to work alive with the sound of music. My runs more escapist; no longer could I even hear my heartbeat, my footsteps, my ragged breath. Putting headphones on is like opening a beloved, enthralling book. Nothing bothers me. I am in my own world of lovely music. I feel wholesome and free.

But when I try to write I suddenly realise I have nothing to write about. Nothing. My mind, tired from thankless work and a long commute, lulled by soothing, soporific sounds, has nothing to say for itself. It didn't need to. It wasn't made to entertain itself. It just sat and listened. It didn't have to think. And so it thought about nothing, and no ideas were spawned, no memories resurfaced, no dreams were woven. No new connections were made. It just bathed lazily in beautiful music. 

Now, music is wonderful, moving, magnificent, and vital for the soul. I missed it. I am thrilled to have it back.

But there is a lot to be said, it seems, for silence.