The Effects of Sangria

We were directed to a row of fishermen’s taverns along the shore of southern Spain, by a tramp with a face like a hawk, who slept in a railway station in Paris; a full day’s journey in thickening heat, eating only French bread dipped in liquid jam.

   Small wooden boats lay moored on the beach, tangled up in nets and soaking in saltwater sunshine. We took off our boots and cooled our feet in the sea. A turd floated up to my ankles. The scent of oil and fish hung in the breeze blowing off an expanse of blue-grey light. We were preserved in a radiant bubble.

   The first tavern was run by a man called Angel, and we had been instructed by the tramp to introduce ourselves as his friends. His bar was a simple wooden hut, stacked cane wrapped in string, wooden stools, cool, grassy shade. He served sangria and sardines, a salt and sweet wine treat which refreshed us instantly. Sweat and steam poured from our feet, our bodies; the sweet wine soothed our limbs; the oily fish invigorated us. It took a while, but eventually we mentioned the tramp.

   Something ignited through the broken Spanish – a memory, a confrontation. Angel frowned and stepped back. His wife popped her head through the bead curtain. Gulls fought over scraps of fish on a plate.

   “Ok, it’s good, it’s good,” said Angel, nervously drying a glass and knocking over the salt as he reached to put it away.

   The bar smelled of stale wine. His wife mumbled, cursed in Spanish, before disappearing into the gloom behind the bar. Something rose up from the sea and settled on the sand. My friend and I bristled at the hurt, then re-took our seats. We drank a little sangria and ordered more sardines.

   Neither of us knew why we’d come to this stretch of Spanish coast where the boats breathed the smell of shit and frying fish. They sheltered us that night, but still I was startled awake by Angel’s dog sniffing my face in the early morning, when terrors are supposedly asleep and the pain of day break is only a dream. Angel pulled it off me before it had the chance to sink its teeth into my cheek. My friend woke with a shriek an instant later. I paused to breathe the salt air and listen to the trembling waves, wondering why I was so distant, so adrift. It seemed reckless and foolish against the laughter of the sea.

   The next morning Angel smiled at me, indicating the guard dog safely chained in a pen beside the bar. I smiled back and felt an overwhelming need to apologise, but the sun had dried my tongue and my mouth was tight and stretched like leather.

   We left before midday, heading for the gardens in town where tourists cooled themselves and ate hard boiled eggs in the shade. Angel was serving sangria to olive skinned fishermen coming ashore from a night’s fishing. As the sun hid behind the dark cane roofs, I remembered giving the tramp a brand new T-shirt in exchange for a night’s sleep in the Paris railway station, and instantly regretted it.

Odd Magazine

An odd short in an Odd Magazine. Scroll down to read a strange story of mine. And check out the rest of the ezine for work by Marton Koppany and Alexander Jorgensen:

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A mechanical crow perched on top of my head and began to peck at my brow. I tried to shoo it away but its feet were rooted to my scalp like strands of hair. My crown was no place for a mechanical bird, but no amount of shooing or shouting could dislodge it. It continued to peck away regardless, tearing at the skin of my brow and exposing the white bone of my throbbing skull beneath. It thrust its beak into my forehead with maddening regularity, all through the day, all through the night, until the cavern of my skull resounded like an exploding bomb, and my brain lay scrambled in a thousand mashed up pieces. I neither ate nor slept. I couldn't hold a single thought in my pulverised head for more than a second. My mind crawled from one moment to the next like a weary traveller. All manner of crazy ideas for removing the crow flitted back and forth, some gripping me with such manic intensity, that I frequently found myself pacing my room in a state of frenzied delirium. Every notion of escape only served to inspire the crow to a more concentrated series of pecks. I was fused to the bird, both physically and mentally.

Just as it seemed that the only way out lay at the bottom of a precipitous cliff, the crow's beak broke through my skull, into the cavity of my brain, releasing a torrent of light which swirled and eddied over my head, then down and around my body, bathing me in its blissful glow. Such a release! Such ecstasy! It streamed around me, filling my eyes, ears, nose and mouth, and flooding my being with a new found tenderness.

Slowly and softly, the light dissipated, and I found myself awake in a circular room, whose walls wavered, gradually taking on substantial form around me. There, on a chair, sitting with his legs crossed and his wingtips touching in front of his beak, was the crow, all flesh and shiny black feathers, grown to the size of a man.

- Welcome, he said, and smiled.

He invited me to sit down, then coughed, and began to ingratiate himself to me through a series of compliments regarding my ability to withstand the pecking assault of his former self. I was thoroughly non-plussed. He was, however, trained, he said, in Jungian psycho-analysis, and proceeded to offer me his services, for a modest fee, as an aid to my recovery from the trauma of the extended abuse. Naturally I declined, but then mysteriously found myself opening up to him, and quite enthusiastically and trustingly relating the contents of my dreams as if I had known him for years as my personal therapist.

One dream in particular piqued his curiosity. In it, I had the consciousness of grass, and felt myself grow, though my roots were insubstantial, as the summer rain drenched the ground I clung to and the yellow sun nourished each tender blade. He posited this as my awakening into transpersonal consciousness and attempted to configure the dream with his taking root on my head. What followed was an in depth explanation of the necessity of his prolonged and frenzied pecking, how it had been essential to my spiritual development, and should, indeed, be seen as a wonderful new birth. My fury at such self-justifying impertinence knew no limits. I stood up and attempted to make a storming exit, only to discover that the wall of the circular room, completely covered with red velvet drapes as it was, revealed no door or window from which to make my escape. I fumbled with the curtains, eventually uncovering a small portal, through which I crawled and fell, plunking down in a soft, grassy field, on a bright sunny day, with a flock of crows wheeling lazily overhead.

When I tried to move, I experienced an incredible tension in my joints. I looked up and saw that the crows were circling ever nearer. Now I was rooted to the spot and couldn't untangle myself from the patch of grass steadily growing around me. My fear of crows intensified as a sweeping veil of wings and feathers descended, submerging me in its slick, oily blackness, through which I swam, unsure whether I was remembering my past or projecting my fears of a nightmarish future.

Messiah Boy - A Televisual Event (Introduction)

Messiah Boy is quite capable of taking over our television screens. He understands digital TV. He understands fibre optics. He is capable of invading our cable and satellite networks like a virus infecting the central nervous system.

From his birth as a sub-atomic particle, radiating energy, he hurtles through systems and circuits, gaining velocity, crashing into other speeding particles, transforming, mutating, until an image is formed, an outline, a faint glow at the edge of our TV screens. He enters our consciousness gently, a character in a sitcom, an occasional guest on chat shows, a feature in celebrity gossip magazines. He feeds on our lust for entertainment, drama, 24 hour news coverage, until, finally, Channel 4 offers him his own reality TV show.

We become obsessed, fixated. Every thought, every emotion is conveyed to the public via sensors attached to his body and head. Our nervous systems and brain functions are digitally pixelated. We become one cyber organism - Messiah Boy and his disciples. He leads, we follow; he speaks, we listen. Oh Messiah Boy, Son of the Most High Wired, we worship you!!! Oh Messiah Boy, wi-fi, hi-fi, wi-si-hi-pi, Most Highly Defined, we magnify Your Name!

The Light-Being at Home

The Light-Being has a family. Oh yes! It comes as quite a shock to me who always considered him a lone wolf. Not so! He lives in little love groups, moving from light to life in fiery circles, fiery cycles, icy fircles.

God bless you Light-Being, and your little love group. In life - love. In death - love. In life in love in light - love. Oooh those little love groups! It's where the fire starts, where it burns brightest. And even in the wild light beyond life, where fire is fire is fire is fire, may the love group light keep shining.

The Return of the Light-Being

The Light-Being makes his way out. From death to life, confinement to liberation. Light to light. Will he escape the fires of hell? Perhaps some day he will return, all knowledge and memory submerged. Or maybe he will advance, stage by stage, hurdling dimensions like the cosmic athlete, the astral pony. This point of departure comes to us all, sometimes before lunch.

If you see the Light-Being, stop him and gently take his arm. Ask him if he remembers where he's been, if he knows where he's going. He may get shirty and slap your delicate chops with the back of his light-infused hand. Don't get angry. Don't retaliate. Plant a kiss on his face and suck on the light.

Oh Light-Being, Light-Being, where are you? We love you, we miss you! Where on earth will you turn up next . . ?

An Introduction to the Light-Being

Here he is. He's in all our towns and cities. He's the Limbo Kid, Bardo Boy, the Light-Being. He's our souls in transition, transmission, waiting incarnation. He's who we are in the before and after life.

These signs are the portals, the way in and out. Look out for them. Look out for him. He's you and I in another dimension, carrying the weight of our lives, the hope of our lives. He is pain, bliss, rapture. Let's see what he does next . . .