Messages from my head:
There’s a man on the tube wearing dark plastic sun glasses and a furry eskimo hat on a fairly warm day in spring. The earphones wedged into his ears underneath his hat’s ear flaps are connected to some unseen gadget that whispers something sweet into his brain that makes him comfortable enough to mumble nonsensical phrasings punctuated by swear words into the otherwise stuffy and silent underground air. He straddles a tall boy of cheap cider between his knees on the seat. I stand in front of him for awhile before a seat empties across from him. We make eye contact over the book I’m reading and I glance at his lips which are sparkling at the corners with a wetness most often assumed to be alcohol, or spit. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a biker’s pair of leather gloves, shining black and red in the fluorescent train lighting. At King’s Cross, he stands up, preparing to offload himself and his heavy thoughts from the train car. His mumbles become louder, both more audible and understandable. No one makes like they’re listening, but we all hear him as he disjointedly complains about the malicious murders of one of the poor indigenous populations of the world.
Maybe he’s got a good reason to be crazy.
My favorite part of a rain shower in London is right after it has let up but the people of the streets haven’t realized it yet so they string along under their sea of umbrellas; some in a rush, some moseying about, some with discount umbrellas on the brink of death—ones that blow up when the wind is too strong and get stuck—some with umbrellas that slump over their broken skeletal system, barely keeping them dry when the rain is really falling.
Perhaps though those with the dying umbrellas are also the first to realize the rain has stopped.
Even those who look like they’ve got it figured out have no fucking clue what they’re doing.