“Guy Cotten” in Yellow

The St Ives fisherman’s co-operative at the end of the wharf near Smeaton’s Pier sits quiet compared to the ice cream shops and fish and chips shops. In the windows are things attuned to the casual visitor. A few days after I went I read about the shop, which had been there since the 1920’s. Back then they used to sell oilskins and heavy waxed boots. The air held a perpetual musk of linseed oil and paraffin. Today they sell sweatshirts and a few raincoats. Fisherman’s tackle is in the corner by the door. The ceiling is low. I have to duck a little under the rafters.
At first through the threshold I am alone. Its only after I start wandering around that a thin man in his mit to late 60’s emerges from some secret place in the shop. I could have sworn it wasn’t big enough to hide anyone, and yet as if from the woodwork he was there in the corner, watching me intently. I think he believed I might try to steal something.
I’d come in originally looking for a yellow nautical rain slicker, the kind that the oyster farmers I see setting up coolers on Water Street back home wear under large overalls in high visibility orange. Sometimes I wish I had their job. Even in the summer heat under the rubber gear I pass by them and hear their weathered voices laughing with a vitality that my day job seems to suppress in me.
I grew up on the water. My grandfather taught me to sail and signed me up for sailing camp, but I quit around the time I turned sixteen. However, now that I’m older and he passed away, breathing the salt air in deep comes with dreams of those few times when I was younger and sky was grey, and I remember the sea really being something wild. I picture myself running with the waves in a two man racing dingy, the spray dripping off my yellow lifejacket that seems to strain with me against the wind and the pull of the sheet. If I close my eyes on a bus or a train I can sometimes feel the rhythmic thrashing of the waves on the hull when it missed the valley beneath the crest and shuttered along the beam.
The co-op is quiet compared to the busy street. It’s early summer in Cornwall and the weather has been clear since I arrived in England. I haven’t yet found myself in need of a raincoat. I’m flipping through the yellow coats on the rack with nautical striped lined hoods and attractive zippers when the guy says in a quiet abruptness, “Those-re all ladies jackets”.
“Yah hard to tell right away sometimes”. I notice I’m slurring my words a little, trying to sound like there’s a dryness in my throat from the salt air. He doesn’t say anything, or he doesn’t hear me. I pull from the rack on the far left side away from the window a plain looking baggy yellow jacket- the spitting image of what the fisherman at home wear. It’s a highlighter yellow, but I call it “hi-vis” when I pull it from the rack and bring it to the man’s attention.
“This looks like a real one” I say, pausing a little, hoping hill fill the void in my knowledge which really only goes so far as “this looks like a real one”.
“yeh, it’s a proper rain jacket. Has the fused seams rather than stitched”. He handles the rubberized fabric and instantly finds an example, but falls quiet again.
“How’s fishing around here?” I start, “I’m from a coastal town like here. I’ve got a friend who’s an oyster farmer who told me there’s no money in it anymore. All the fish are gone.” I’m trying hard to sound like I know what I’m talking about. It’s only half true. I do know someone in oyster farming, but we’ve never really talked about her work, and don’t know how related if at all that is to the fishing industry. I just know you can’t just buy a proper fisherman’s rain slicker without knowing something about the sea. I check and recheck my record. I could mention that I used to sail, but that was in sailing camp, and these guys didn’t start in any sort of summer camp. The man in the co-op certainty didn’t I think. Did he fish? Does he just work here? There are deep crests of wrinkles on his forehead and his hair is cut short and out of the way. His face is laconic, which only serves to alert me to how much mine gives away. I’m curling my toes in my boots and sweating in my t-shirt. He had me pegged from the moment I walked in. I just know it.
“There’re still some little boats around that still go out with nets,” He says. “ And the big trawlers make the money. It’s the medium fishermen” He doesn’t finish his sentence. I assume he means, “It’s the in between sized fishing ventures that failed”. I ask him if he did any fishing himself and he says. “A little, yes”.
I buy the jacket. It’s a baggy medium. “Probably to fit a sweater under” I say in front of him to myself, but I know it’s made for someone of a different build. He thanks me for my fifty and I walk out into the cloudless sun of St. Ives with the yellow rubber folded under my arm. In the harbor it is low tide, and a small fleet of boats lays beached waiting for the water to come back in. Their lines run entrenched in the sand, crisscrossing small channels of salt water, which run from pools at the base of the crowded break wall. Beyond the many beach goers lying amongst the boats, the coastal waters reflect back an empty and unbroken blue.

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Embrasure

My room is on the first floor, off of the great hall. Its not really ours any more though- its on the market. It was after Avalon was sold, a little after my grandfather died. When the Green Knight came to call, and Tristan and Isolde were best friends until she of the white hands, and the eventual divorce.

I remember, when I was young, my grandfather took my family to Scotland, to the ruined keeps amidst rolling farmland. I remember my father bought me and my brother wooden swords from the castle gift shop. There are photographs, of us climbing across the half tumbled walls after one another, and the plywood blade smacked hard into young wrists.

I found one of the swords once a few years back, covered with rot and mildew from the damp of our basement. The rope cross guard had come untwined and frayed, and the hilt is now too small for my hand. I remember springing out of rented cars with it, to ready in the old way, using my belt loop as a sheath. To read from the Exeter Book by candle light: the Ruin, like the alimony, not giant’s work or any faithful design. Only faith in my brother, who was with me then, as he is now.

He and I have seen modern ruins, castle condos- made of linoleum, wood paneling, and appliances from the 70s. The kind my father grew up with, is what he told us- the first time we visited his new place on Harbor Hill. The lord my father died in his sleep, my mother might have preferred to say, if his body had not up and left, mind without a trace. My grandfather’s last word was his wife’s name. My mother told me that some time after the house he’d built was sold.

I remember my father in portraiture, when his face was young, and he wore glasses and was unshaven from time to time. In his great hall the pictures are gone. I wander- out of my room, to where the Christmas tree once was. They’d collected ornaments for it like precious jewels for the vault.

But I am standing in the great hall of an older ruin far away, where the wind calls quiet through the weeds of a now ruined rampart, like the weeds I once removed from my mothers garden as part of my chores. It brings his voice, wandering across moss stone. Ry-de he he called me when I was a child. He still does, starting the first time he saw me since he moved.

The keep is the next town over, with gates wide open, he told me. I can go whenever I want, and maybe help him decorate, or move furniture. But the land is blocked, wild and untamed hills of Waves, and my mother has tossed out the sword in the stone with the weeds and the wedding photographs.

But I am far from the rubble, in the settled rock of Goodrich. Study abroad, and run. In the ruins of the place, no harm can come to me. The conditions of a Visa say so. Until  I must ride out after a year and one day, and face the green of Harbor Hill with a wooden sword pulled from the basement like stone.

hladová zeď

The ancient Soviet pipes,
Left the water tasting
Strongly of Iron
from the kitchen sink.

The old TV tower, like a monolith
Alien in the sky over
The Jewish quarter,
And the medieval city.
The cluttered old cemetery.

Night bus like a chariot.
They’ll sell you water
For a few Crowns, but coffee is free.

My home is somewhere far off,
An old house near but not on
The coast. Where it is quiet most days,
And nothing spits waves high above the trees.
There is no hunger wall, no old fortification,
Climbing the hill.

When the shock wore off,
My boot socks had worn through
Leaving blisters on my feet.
I can still taste moldy cheese,
The day after I left.
Like broadcasts set high into the stratosphere,
Linger in the air
Of decades and centuries prior.
Or at least, so says my guidebook
Of the Charles Bridge.

Brno

When you realize, the new sense-
By the neon light-
Of the sex shop sign,
and the Soviet era tram system
grinds along steel lines.

Strange shock for the foreign frontier,
Where I came to purge the untrue self, or just as well
Rattle him.

Close your eyes, and think of England.
Isn’t that what was said before they were shot
With soviet made ammunition?

The back of the skull.
Former BLOC. Midnight bus
Through the lives of others.
8:15 exactly. Start the bus. Start again
Homeward west.
Start again.IMG_0187

In the Style of a Bus Dweller, Fairbanks Transit No. 142

For what, if I have yet to depart among the many mastheads of Falmouth Harbor? For what, if the ferry has carried me to and from the Island, but never across the sea?

I have been far and wide in my town; found the hidden places like a maker of maps; carved my sign in white chalk atop many walls and glacial debris.

Kitchen dweller, living room busker, drinker of tea and coffee at inappropriate and strangely kept hours. These things and more I have become. I have become one to think in the ways of mystics close to death, looking for the mundane and forgotten stains on our charts.

The shoreline of our futures is rocky, and littered with forgotten hulls, which we shall one day explore like children. Through rust holes and creaking iron, we shall follow the oxidized corridor in search of meaning like a long lost and waterlogged cargo manifest; the ship’s log disintegrated in salt water.

For what, if I have never been across the ocean ti Iceland, carried by a coal steamer built at the start of the first world war? My dreams, like such laden tubs, carry me there at night. Someday perhaps, I might feel the strangeness of foreign wind; feel the home of a thousand homes, while leaving a well-loved and glowing kitchen at night, far in the distance.

Yet even here we are travelers of a home town, of the familiar and static places we lean against to better look at the clouds. In the way of a decomposing bus dweller overlooking the Sashana River, I found my way to an unexplored place, I simply forgot the map.

Perhaps that is all I will need, to complete this strange navigation.