Static
It was that time when it’s neither
night nor morning – an uncomfortable definition nature hadn’t planned on – and
my ear was pressed to my grandmother’s wireless, its coarse grille patterning
my skin. Warm Bakelite has its own smell, stronger than brushed-cotton sheets.
During the day, my bed folded into a cabinet little bigger than a coffin,
scuffed wood swallowing iron and steel. I thought that might be a metaphor, but
was too tired to follow it through. The wireless whispered, and played music
indistinguishable from static and passing aircraft. I don’t recall drifting
into sleep, but I woke to a morning that was easier to pin down, my fragmenting
dreams oozing white noise.
Progress
Outside, the city inhaled itself, its
lungs filling with windows, doors, and the stuff in between. Shops, flats,
trees, post boxes – all the iron and tarmac – crusted on callused bronchi,
compacted in alveoli, stretched and heavy. Resigned to our incapacity, we sat
side by side, glancing occasionally at our blank phones, but never at each
other. Beyond the ruptured pleura of our room, we thought we heard dogs,
snuffling for signs, but it could have been far-off rubble settling. We put out
pots, hats, anything hollow to collect scattered drops from the pulsing
ceiling, closed our eyes, and held our breath.
Oz Hardwick is a writer, photographer,
music journalist, and occasional musician, based in York (UK). His work has
been published and performed internationally in diverse media: books, journals,
record covers, programmes, fabric, with music, with film, and with nothing but
the reverberation of air. His sixth poetry collection, The House of Ghosts and
Mirrors, will be published by Valley Press in September 2017. Find out more at:
www.ozhardwick.co.uk
