h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

The bookshop where I once worked is now an Internet cafe and takeaway. Gothly and I decided to go there for lunch, to see how it has changed. It felt odd to stand inside that building again, having worked in it for so many years, and it was sad to see the books all gone. My old office is now a kitchen; the stockroom's a collection of pizza ovens and fridges; the music department is a smoking room; the upstairs office is now a toilet. The counters are still where they used to be, but now they are stacked with snack food rather than book-related frivolity.

We went upstairs and sat by the window overlooking the balcony ledge, in the corner where the anatomy books used to stand. There were huge pictures of Wales's favourite poet Dylan Thomas all over the place (and not one book by him). They brought sharply to mind a colleague of mine from about five years ago: not only did he look like Dylan Thomas, but he was a poet as well. A very good poet, as it happens. The man lived and breathed poetry, and during our acquaintanceship he introduced me to new forms of writing, and to the work of exciting new poets I'd never heard of. He was the only person I knew who loved words like I love words--their special sounds, their histories, the shapes they make when written down, the inexplicable pleasure that can be derived from seeing or hearing them grouped together in certain ways. He tended the shop's poetry section like it was a garden plot, ordering obscure tomes to plant among the popular staples, and daily turning different ones face-out for the eyes of passers-by to light on. Sometimes, in the evenings, he'd do a public reading of his own work, and when I could, I'd go and listen to him spellbinding his audiences with his poetic narratives, his Welsh accent rrrolling the RRR's, his tongue caressing each syllable as though it were made of chocolate.

Like me, Dylan sampled the stock in the bookshop indiscriminately, so conversation with him was always wide-ranging; but most of all, I enjoyed our chats about poetry. It was a marvel to me that here was somebody else who not only valued versification, but had read all the same poets as I had, and more. He got me writing copiously, and I came to look forward to my days at work with him. I liked the way he'd sit cross-legged on the counter-top when the shop was empty of customers; I liked the way he smoked pensively out of the upstairs window; I liked the anarchic streak that caused him to climb out of the upstairs window with me and sit on the balcony-ledge to watch the world go by. Because we took turns to do the daily accounts, we began to leave poems for each other in a drawer of the accounting desk: poems about echinoderms, corsets, cadavers, anything.

And then, one day, my Dylan said he was leaving: he was off to seek a better living in London. And it dawned on me that I loved him. And how! This was bad news: I was very much with Gothly.

The last day we spent together was on a staff day-trip to Dublin. Dylan pointed out to me a place where Yeats had once slept rough. I showed him the place where Oscar Wilde had once graffitoed a window-sill. We wandered through green parks and arty parts of the city. He bought himself a silver keychain whose links stood out against the black of his trousers. On the ferry back, he went on deck for a smoke, and I joined him. I wanted to kiss him, but instead I shared his cigarette and we gazed together at the long white wake that stretched behind the boat into the gathering dusk. Reluctant to hurry back to the others in the bar, we mucked about with the samples at the duty free perfume counter. He sprayed his throat with scent, and my mouth was almost close enough to kiss it as I leaned in to smell it; and when I sprayed my wrist, he took my hand in his and touched his lower lip to my pulse. I burned for him.

He was due to leave Wales the following day, but said he'd drop by our house one last time to say goodbye. Back home, I was beside myself. I knew I had to tell Gothly how I felt, but I couldn't. So I hid in the bedroom and wrote one last poem for Dylan: a fatalistic love poem, this time, ostensibly about his favourite artist, and written in a way only he would understand. I handed it to him when he called to say goodbye, there at the front door, with Gothly sitting feet away in the living room.

Then I wrote a letter to Gothly, explaining that I was contemplating ending our relationship and following Dylan to London. And I sat and watched Gothly read this letter. In the trembling of that hand, in the sudden hot smell of tears that didn't fall--in that moment, I realised what a terrible arse I had been: I love Gothly dearly; we are together, and that's that. So I stayed with Gothly--or Gothly let me stay.

There was only one thing I could do in recompense for my utter stupidity: I cut all ties with Dylan. Completely lost contact with him. I'll never see him again, never speak with him; never read another of his poems. And every day I kick myself for ruining what was once a beautiful friendship by getting all calf-eyed over the man.

So. There we were, Gothly and I, sitting by the window overlooking the balcony ledge, in the corner where the anatomy books used to stand. And there were all those great big pictures of Dylan Thomas (and not one book by him). I was struck by one picture in particular, of Dylan smoking pensively and gazing out of the frame. It was a little like this one: http://www.dylanthomasboathouse.com/english/education/packs.html.

I don't think I'll be going back to that cafe.




Before committing suicide, Rothko
Had formed a meaningful relationship
Between colour and emotion.
Yet,
Had he streaked his White
In foamy swathes across the deepening Blue;
Had he reckoned on strung Silver
Linking Black & Black & Black;
Wantonly daubed moodscapes
With proximities of throat and lips,
Of lip & naked wrist
In reams of monochrome;
Had he burgeoned lawns of Green & Green
With rich potential harmonies,
perhaps--

Perhaps he'd still have smeared his Red:
He'd still be Blue & Green & Gold, & dead.

Rothko. Dylan.Poets.Lost love. Love that should be "only" friendship and "love" which isn't friendship.....oh, how i can relate to all this.

*sigh*

Very moving Snailrind.

zdt

I wish I could say something wise, comforting and profound, but I’m at a loss. I agree with Terri, very moving indeed. It just aches with emotion.

I’m going for a lie down now…

I do enjoy a bit of unrequited love--when it's happening to someone else. So I thought some of you others might be entertained by mine. Glad you enjoyed reading it.

I did make the right choice in sticking with Gothly.

You do know how to cheer a person up
Glad you made the right choice

Time it was and what a time it was it was,
A time of innocence a time of confidences.

Long ago it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories, they're all that's left you

"Bookends" Simon and Garfunkel

Blimey Snailrind

that was brimming over with emotion

I am glad you feel you made the right choice

Yes, it would be pretty bad to think you'd made the wrong one ... and say so where the "wrong one" might see it ...

In keeping with Sea Change's poetic post, I'll add a quote of my own.


Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.

Dylan Thomas--from 'In My Craft or Sullen Art'.


No particular significance there, other than that I like the way he says it.

Wow, I'm glad things worked out for you and Gothly. Great piece, SR.

I echo what has been said already - what you've written really does communicate and evoke strong feelings.

A haunting melancholic memory, played in an exquisite literal melodic minor key of past thoughts and emotions.

*inaudiblesigh*

From 'Days' (The Kinks)....


Thank you for the days,
Those endless days, those sacred days you gave me.
I’m thinking of the days,
I won’t forget a single day, believe me....

Days I’ll remember all my life,
Days when you can’t see wrong from right.
You took my life,
But then I knew that very soon you’d leave me....

And though you’re gone,
You’re with me every single day, believe me....

I always liked Kirsty McCalls version of that song....that husky voice..

Me too. But I pretend not to, in case it's not .