[15-16/01/02]
Last night, walking home, I saw an empty shell joy-ride car, dumped behind Tescos.
I approached it with wild curiosity, moving around it's white flaking body, peering through empty windows and rummaging through fossils of glass. The windscreen remained almost intact, cracked, icy veins, fractural fractures in a state of semiotic bliss, stripped bare of all worth. I made my way home, regretting that I hadn't taken a souvenir.
Before, earlier, I saw a man bounce off the bonnet of a small truck, in chaotic aerial ballet, before landing on his back. He lay still for moments before struggling to his feet. The driver rushed from his cab, helped him to the side of the road, out of concern, covering his ass. I watched with detached morbid interest, wishing that I had my camera and that the light was better.
Going back further, pacing two and through outside Tescos, smoking last dregs, I watched an old woman pause, pivotal, before falling on her arse spending a single glove, bags of shopping and her purse onto the pavement. I helped her up, again, wishing I had my camera.
Early this morning I lay awake, dreaming, savouring this strange new feeling. Was this lucid? I felt in touch with both the dream and reality. In the dream I snapped one of my nails in half, peeling it away from the skin. I panicked, felt frantic, and woke. Later, on a bus heading for the bay, I checked the ends of my fingers for damage, rummaged through the fragmented ghost image, trying to remember more.
(c) Adam Cheshire 2002
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