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.'
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
Friday, 14 September 2012
Thursday, 13 September 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, 12 September 2012
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'.
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'.
Tuesday, 11 September 2012
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.
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.
Monday, 10 September 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, 9 September 2012
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.
Saturday, 8 September 2012
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
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