There ought to be a carnival, a sky full of colored balloons drifting on the wind with tags on them saying… goodbye…goodbye…crossing the Golden Gate and on around the world on the trade winds of friendship.
I wish I had moved more slowly, taken more time to arrive at where friendship left off. I wish I had danced and dined more often, learned the meaning of each other’s glances, or taken note how quickly time was passing.
Your warmth and humour always had me feeling a little tipsy, light hearted, as if I’d eaten a perfectly ripe tomato and its…
I had chosen to walk down Princes Street, in Edinburgh, because for a month I had been saving my money, looking forward to the Easter Holiday sale at the House of Fraser.
I read in the newspaper that the first hundred customers would receive a voucher worth an extra ten pounds toward any purchase.
Early as I was, I was not the first in the queue, not the fiftieth even. I would just wait and see if a voucher got handed to me on entry.
I checked my watch. 9:30 a.m. Across the street church folks were coming out of…
I’ve been searching a long time, traveling all around the world, and sometimes that road was hard while waiting for you to come through. I moved along highways, climbed hills, trod the sand looking for a sign, not knowing what that sign might look like.
I sought out the mystic, sailed on the wind, and flew to foreign lands, all the time believing you would come. I followed the fog horns, believing you to be hiding offshore, in the mist, coming home on a bonnie boat. …
Sitting in his nowhere land…
Union Square, even on a mild day, can be cold in the shadows. Men and women sleeping in doorways, or gathering on street corners shooting themselves up. As if these people do not exist, others hasten on by resisting pleas for money or smokes, on their way to buy clothes or meet for lunch.
San Francisco is out of sorts. Sickened. The city’s lower streets filled with years of doldrums, as if that malady had blown in under the Golden Gate Bridge, and the coming down of the mist off the headlands, tender as sleep…
Too cold the long dark passing hours
That somewhere up ahead wait for me
Down a tree lined country road
Round the age old bend of vanity
I don’t know what it is that leads me on
To what eventually will become my fate
Regretting youthful days I’m sure
I should have chose to pause and wait
The ancient lies I told and spread
On wrinkled skin the truth be hung
Bloodshot eyes and thinning hair
I should have died when I was young
Before the end does youth aspire Enjoy the follies and drink the wine Such joys will…
Am I the first clown you ever knew? Billy Smart once told me that clowns were in short supply. He had jugglers, trapeze artists, tightrope walkers, fire-eaters, even women who do strange things with snakes, but the clown he told me, sadly, is in decline.
We don’t laugh at big feet, red noses, baggy trousers, and doors that fall off cars when you open them. Why not? These days, the modern clown wears a suit and looks as though he could take his place as Prime Minister or President at the head of a country. Even if that political clown…
The tapping of the stick heralded his coming. Nearby, birds fought over the crumbs he’d thrown down on the crispy white grass. It had been slow progress. Every few yards, the figure placed a hand inside his heavy coat pocket, the collar of which was drawn up under the brim of his trilby. He wore the hat with a tilt of exactness. The birds continued to flock about him like sky-wolves, disturbing the early morning quiet. In the cemetery, waking mists, noises, and shivering shadows formed a parade of enchantments. …
Writing. This is not a tutorial.
I have vainly convinced myself I felt things other writers had yet to discover, and in my quest to knock on the hallowed doors of publication, suffered the highs and lows of those two extremities. In reality, writing is, of course, a discipline. I cannot hope to write a book using a pre-conceived notion that I have something unique to say. The fact is, there is nothing new to say anymore, only new ways to say old things.
If I think I have a new idea, a little research will satisfy me I have…
I was five minutes early; the shop wasn’t yet open. I stood basking in the sunshine, having heard from the hotel valet it was to be the warmest day of the year so far. It certainly felt possible.
The air is scented with a weightless veil of pipe smoke. Looking around, I see the old man sitting on a bench, satisfying a need he cannot ignore. I don’t know when I last smelled pipe smoke.
A teenage man is standing at the door to the shop. …
I stroll the Sausalito paths, winding up, then along, and then down again, smelling the sweet cherry blossom scented air and feeling the breeze push through my hairline.
I am a man without purpose in their absence, imagining myself calm. I feel a genuine tenderness as if eating up the day’s serenity.
Looking over the waters to North Beach, the San Francisco city streets climbing away; streets where the Chronicle’s Farley treads. But I’m here thinking about Otis and sitting on his dock.
There’s no sand in Sausalito to bring my bucket and spade. It was here I loved Jerry…
I was born in London, adopted, lived my youth on an island off the west coast of Scotland. I now live in California. I write to travel.