Along the Bridge

I feel I am trying to paint a large white blank canvas using an unsharp pencil. I need sharp focus, a sharper language, maybe a blunt intellect. I overthink and ramble.

I am ambling across a variety of fronts – from rabbit holes to ecstasies, from fantasies to fallacies, with a fuck-all focus. How do I wrestle this lazy ass hummus out of the soaking shit-bed I am in? How do I climb up the foggy steps on the Ladder of Literature?

If I were to write a story, and bring in a slush of thisness, I only have to look through the window:

He cycled along the bridge, wet as a wiener, the cranky cars evading a crash-laden rainy afternoon, the cranky girlfriend expecting a promised evening, all in the hopes of singing the blues at the fifty-dollar-ticket-concert, all in the hopes of surviving the cranky and crash-laden relationship. He cancelled his gym membership to find the time for their walking routine, for their favourite momos from the Tibetan couple on Saturdays. He was introduced to them by Tracey – his customer Tracey, who lived across the street from the Tibetans known for their mouth-watering momos at the Eumundi markets. Tracey once left her wallet atop the car, too focussed on the hot momos on her lap, drove around for a good forty-five minutes, settling into the car park, to then glimpse the strange thing on the car roof. This became Tracey’s crazy ‘what-am-i-like’ story during introductions. She relished telling and retelling this to her colleagues and customers and to any new acquaintance like me – only for me to promptly and shamelessly weave it into this clumsy cluster of a chronicle.