tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80569163505772987542024-03-05T16:07:56.289-08:00encountersa place to share writing-in-progress, about encounters with people, places, and, surprisingly, sometimes yourselfAmita Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08003141911678889126noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056916350577298754.post-78154346684341810752015-03-28T03:23:00.000-07:002015-03-28T03:23:28.867-07:00A Cat Called Michelle - by Sarah Kunz<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Amita Murray</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Let me introduce myself. I am
called Michelle. I am rather beautiful, rather big cat, a male cat, although my
owners hadn’t realized that yet when they named me Michelle. Humans… I love to
stroll around the neighborhood, enjoy the sun and pick up a bit of chit chat on
the way. And I hear all sorts of things, sitting on our neighbor’s windowsill,
watching all those petty and not so petty scenes going on in these peoples’
homes. And all those poor humans think I don’t understand any of what is going
on. Little do they know. Its amazing really, much better than that reality TV
that my people watch at home. And sometimes I’m even fed some tuna sitting on
those window sills. Those are lucky days.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US">The other day I observed this scene
while enjoying the first spring sun. I was just doing a bit of stretching and
relaxing on the windowsill of our neighbor’s kitchen and let me tell you I felt
rather sorry for this poor chap Ben. Actually, I have been watching those
people for some time now. It used to be such fun, such a happy home always
someone in the kitchen, chatting and laughing, oh I really picked up some juicy
gossip on that windowsill. But lately, none of that. Some of the people must
have moved out, I never see them anymore…Ah, things really have changed. The
only one that’s left of the old crew is this poor fellow Ben. He is always such
an enthusiastic guy, smiling, friendly chap, gives me a bite of tuna sometimes.
Generous man really. Though lately he is always alone in that kitchen, no more
smiling and hatting….and no more tuna if I think about it. And that day this
new girl, she always looks so broody, rarely a word, just flitting in an out of
the kitchen, never any tuna, never and stroking of my lovely grey fur. And oh I
could see my friend Ben got annoyed that day. When I arrived they were
chatting, I was surprised, it seemed to be going well, almost like one of those
friendly chats like they used to be but then… Ben had turned around, stirring
the stew he was preparing, telling what I thought was a rather funny anecdote
of the class he had taught that day, but then…. he turned around in
mid-sentence and could see what I had seen all along. Michelle had taken a
phone call in the middle of their conversation (I didn’t want to tell you but
yes she is called Michelle, just like me) and by now she was absent-mindedly
discussing with her mum what they should have for tea. No ‘sorry, let me just
answer that phone call’ or ‘excuse me but I need to answer this’. Oh I could
see poor Ben, irked annoyed, in shock really. Locked in an internal battle, I
could see it all on his face, the battle between empathy (‘this poor girl is
new in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>,
lonely and really misses her mum) and offence (‘what a rude behavior’). I felt
sad really, I don’t think I’ll go back relax on that windowsill anytime soon.
Too depressing all of it.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Amita Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08003141911678889126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056916350577298754.post-48121230419677948862015-03-28T03:17:00.002-07:002015-03-28T03:17:57.549-07:00The Arrest - by Caroline Bressey<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Amita Murray</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Caroline looked
at the table as Philips recorded the items in his packet book: “1 pipe, 1 pouch
of tobacco, one handkerchief – blue, I Bible.”
He looked up at Downing. “No
watch, nothing else of value.” It was an
observation not a question. Caroline
lifted her chin, meeting the policeman’s scrutiny while she folded her hands
into her pocket.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">“Wait here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Caroline leant
back against the cold bricks of the wall and closed her eyes at the slam of the
door, breathing in and out deeply as Philips’ steps echoed away. She reached out, fumbling for the
handkerchief and used it to wipe the salt water from her cheeks. She kept her eyes closed focusing on her
breathing until it settled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">She opened her
eyes then and refocused on the table. He
seemed convinced they were all she had to declare and he didn’t seem that
interested in getting her to reveal any more of herself. She’d heard stories, but it was late and
maybe Philips just wanted to head home, maybe getting into an argument with a
six foot black man wasn’t something he cared to do; maybe the cape would still
be enough. She tipped the white felt
brim further down her forehead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">As the door
opened she rolled her back off the wall .
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">“Well Mr Downing
nothing to here to keep you.” She smiled
with relief at the floor, but her brow knitted as she noticed the second pair
of black laced boots. She looked up and met
his eyes. They were more questioning
than Philips’. Sceptical? She settled hopefully for concerned. “This is Dr Stern, he’s one of the doctor’s
at Bow Infirmary – you ever been there?”
Caroline shook her head slowly. “Well, given …” Philips paused trying to
find the most appropriate word, “given the incident, it’s been decided that the
infirmary rather than the cells would be a better place for you and.” “As you’re not feeling well” Stern
interrupted “better to be somewhere with medical professionals where we can
take care of you.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Caroline felt
bile rising at the back of her throat and she focused once again on the breath
in and the breath out.<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Amita Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08003141911678889126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056916350577298754.post-32257596514183272302015-03-28T03:09:00.001-07:002015-03-28T03:10:02.731-07:00New Year's Eve - by Caroline Bressey<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Amita Murray</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">New Year’s Eve is always pretty shit, really. It is.
The nightmare of finding somewhere half decent to go, navigating the
transport options, finding a taxi home
even if you can afford it. And after six
years in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>
it doesn’t get any easier. Laura can
hold her own, drink along with the best of them, but there comes a point when
not taking recreational drugs becomes a serious problem on a night out. People love you but they can’t have a
conversation with you – even wasted it’s nice to know you can still talk to
someone. New Year’s Eve is always shit,
but this one is more painful than most.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Laura can hear kids from the estate shouting at each other
in the street below, friendly taunts roaring
into excited cheers as their fireworks light up the sky above them
all. Laura turns<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>
up the bottle of red into the stew, it mixes with the smokiness of the chorizo
as she pours what’s left of the bottle into her glass. She stirs and watches the chicken turn an
intoxicated ruby under the yellow glow of the cooker light.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The bell rings. “I’ll
get it” and Laura can hear Carrie tripping in the hall, “fuck!”, and then the
catch lifting on the door, “Hi!!” The girls chatter in the hall while Emma
takes off her coat and then she appears in the doorway, another bottle of
prosecco in hand. Laura smiles and takes
it before being wrapped in Emma’s arms.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">“You okay?”<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">“Yeah, I’m okay.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Amita Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08003141911678889126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056916350577298754.post-49899656486730587782015-03-28T02:48:00.000-07:002015-03-28T02:48:47.415-07:00A New Life in London - by Tariq Jazeel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Amita Murray</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">She’s staring at the reflection of herself
in those large glass panes. This sleek, postmodern architectural edifice, the
fittingly imposing headquarters of Fraser & Partners here in the middle of
Battersea, a building she worked in for so many years. She can see herself, now
so different from who she was then. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">It was <i>all</i>
so different when sh<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>e rocked up to their offices on Great
Portland street back in 1991, straight off the plane, jet-lagged weary, but so
eager to start her new life here in London. You could shower straight off the
plane back then, those showers at Heathrow airport offering the promise of
fresh new starts for countless new arrivals. She had checked her luggage at
Victoria station, carefully removing her pristine A4 sized portfolio, her
ticket she hoped to a career in architecture in London. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Standing here now, staring at her reflection
in those glass panes, she caught a glimpse of herself approaching the sliding
glass doors of the old Great Portland Street office 24 years ago, Fraser
Associates as it was back then. She was perhaps naïve, perhaps too innocent,
but she somehow had a firm belief, a conviction, that rocking up at the Fraser
Associates studio, clutching the one existing hard copy of her architect’s
portfolio would be her ticket to a new life here in London. She remembers
vividly, even today, that split second 24 years ago just before those glass
doors opened when she saw herself reflected. Exuberant, hopeful enthusiasm
tinted by a concealed tiredness faintly visible to only those who knew her
intimately. But no one here did. The glass doors opened. Her new life began. </span></span></div>
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Amita Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08003141911678889126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056916350577298754.post-68451166483732621612015-03-09T12:40:00.001-07:002015-03-09T12:40:19.091-07:00Kicking Off in São Paulo - by Tariq Jazeel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I can hear the
hum of a multitude, the sound of thousands of people somewhere as I approach.
Helicopters overhead, São Paulo’s signature sound amplified, the burst of a police
siren close by, but not within sight, at least I don’t think so. It’s
confusing. There are people, everywhere. Some with banners, some with anonymous
masks incongruously balancing atop their heads, groups of three or four,
individuals like me, some laughing, all in high spirits. All heading in one
direction. To the square. To Praça da Sé. It’s the perfect place for public
demonstrations of this magnitude, its wide open spaces and grubby street
furniture, rusty benches, wraught iron railings, and overflowing dustbins, all
offset the imposing turn of the century neo-gothic cathedral occupying one
whole side. Then as I round the corner, as my eyes expectantly set sight on the
Praça, there’s an eruption of singing, chanting, a chorus of a thousand voices,
rising, then fading, then a new chant, like a well orchestrated football crowd,
only more urgent somehow, more vital. <i>“Hey
FIFA, pagar a tarifa”</i> There’s a buzz
of electricity, of energy, enveloping the square, and there are people, people
everywhere. Thousands of them, clustered, but the clusters have merged, and
there’s just a swathe of bodies covering what seems like the whole of the
square, punctuated by banners, banners written in Portuguese, only some of
which I can read, Brazilian flags, some cheekily annotated, waving, fluttering
above this seething mass of politically charged bodies. I’m on the outskirts,
mouth open, stunned, scared, excited, energized, confused. What next?</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Amita Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08003141911678889126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056916350577298754.post-84986964824535886142015-03-05T06:12:00.002-08:002015-03-05T06:12:32.048-08:00Why We're Confused and Fascinated with African Beauty - by Amita Murray<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg7wgGp3dHGistK7tES4c2zRBSIh_qfc2oGcCvI1hNEFlr_2AJu3P_UuB6PHJHQ5jG2Hhf_NLVDYceCHzVTufJKU4S_E2WCn8lFeQAS0sdaaYdmaBgc4qu_AtZe1W1eJLJ3BDnw6b4WZw/s1600/20150216_111616.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg7wgGp3dHGistK7tES4c2zRBSIh_qfc2oGcCvI1hNEFlr_2AJu3P_UuB6PHJHQ5jG2Hhf_NLVDYceCHzVTufJKU4S_E2WCn8lFeQAS0sdaaYdmaBgc4qu_AtZe1W1eJLJ3BDnw6b4WZw/s1600/20150216_111616.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Self-Portrait in Mirror, by Armet Francis</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Call me stupid, but it took a passionate discussion of the relevance and place of hair and hairstyles as cultural markers from my black students, to bring it home to me just how complicated African hairstyles are. Actually, I still don't completely get it. But my students explained to me and an open-mouthed, very diverse undergraduate classroom, that if they let their hair grow unfettered, it would simply grow out and up. That it takes taming, straightening, weaves, relaxers, braiding, hair extensions, and many, many hours to create the beautiful, complex confections that they wear to class. It reminded me, too, of how normative ideals of white beauty impact people of non-white heritage - the hair straightening, the face bleaching, the tucking in, epilating, waxing, narrowing, tweezing, anorexia, liposuctioning, lip-pulling in, that happen behind the scenes to conform to mainstream, capitalism-prescribed aesthetic and performative norms. As market research firm Mintel suggests, black hair could be a $500 billion dollar industry.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Read full article on </span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 21px;">http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/amita-murray/african-beauty_b_6774526.html</span></span></div>
Amita Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08003141911678889126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056916350577298754.post-77601853238730570222015-03-05T06:07:00.001-08:002015-03-05T06:07:05.451-08:00Why Scarves - by Nazneen Ahmed<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSwN40Vr5Lc7suCddlIAY5yRtkLq-C6zxafu98_Gm1ssae1vUqcug8y3VQGrPUcq1vYHhc3B02QlLClrQwMeY7s0y-61qJ04dfZOUXuvNYMwMPiww58yZ0B1oCH0iwYJi-LFNg8d3be4U/s1600/20150216_113229.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSwN40Vr5Lc7suCddlIAY5yRtkLq-C6zxafu98_Gm1ssae1vUqcug8y3VQGrPUcq1vYHhc3B02QlLClrQwMeY7s0y-61qJ04dfZOUXuvNYMwMPiww58yZ0B1oCH0iwYJi-LFNg8d3be4U/s1600/20150216_113229.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Amita Murray</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To the woman who growled at my headscarf on the train.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During our shared journey you repeatedly tried to catch my
eye in order to start what, I don’t really know. You glared, you grimaced, you
pulled grotesque faces. Would you have leapt across the seats and worn out
commuters to punch me if I had risen to your jibes? Would you have ripped off
my scarf?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Part of me wanted to look up, defiantly, and ask you what
you wanted. A fierce pride boiled in me when I saw that hate in your eyes. But
then. Part of me thought of my tiny son waiting at home for me, how if you got
off at my station, you could easily find out where we lived. So I kept my eyes
down.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I noticed you drawling to your companion and saw you were
drunk. Did alcohol dissolve the barriers of politeness that might have kept
that hate locked within you, for no one to know? What is it about my scarf that
enraged you so much?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because my scarf denotes my Muslimness. You hate me because
I am Muslim. I smiled wryly on the train. Because I have a secret, one that you
will never know.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am Muslim. I wear a headscarf. But the secret I wouldn’t
want you to know is that I do not wear my headscarf because I’m Muslim. I wear
it because I have alopecia. I have no hair to conceal. I conceal the fact that
I have no hair.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My sisters who wear the hijab wear it as a shield, as a
crown. My scarf is a shield also, from cruelty, from ignorance. My scarf is a
crown to what I have lost, to what I have survived. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I also have grown to love my scarf because now I am seen
as a sister. My scarf marks me out, as it did to you, as a member of the fold
and family of Islam I once drifted away from but found again during my darkest
times. You hate my scarf, and you hate what it stands for. But I love my scarf,
and I love Islam.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I would never want you to know that I don’t wear my scarf
to cover my hair in a “Muslim” way. I am proud of my scarf and I am proud of
being Muslim. They give me a strength that no amount of whispering, under-your-breath
hatred could ever break. You do not understand it. In the spirit of sisterhood,
I pray that one day you might.</div>
</div>
Amita Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08003141911678889126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056916350577298754.post-67067778013617715822015-03-05T06:01:00.002-08:002015-03-05T06:01:25.992-08:00Rucksacks and Awkward Bodies - by Nazneen Ahmed<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0-LbqXp48yMVtL7iAqg1LHpck2ZZ6kGzvg5ebGptKZY34H0mqwUhcgcMu8pu9vlMCa8r5JVokRPfvznbL1eGUj_ldpTNykJv919k5mC0XifPm3SN-JfNinpR4Cuq4ju4ITWe9H_Dof9Q/s1600/20150225_103638.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0-LbqXp48yMVtL7iAqg1LHpck2ZZ6kGzvg5ebGptKZY34H0mqwUhcgcMu8pu9vlMCa8r5JVokRPfvznbL1eGUj_ldpTNykJv919k5mC0XifPm3SN-JfNinpR4Cuq4ju4ITWe9H_Dof9Q/s1600/20150225_103638.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Amita Murray</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The lobby is a faded olive green with chilled terracotta
coloured linoleum on the floor. Stacks of shoes – including my DMs – line the
shelves on the walls and lie scattered about. Some pairs look like they’re
about to make off in different directions where they’ve been knocked or kicked
around. I’m the last one into the main hall because as usual I’m fumbling with
my laces. I really don’t know why Velcro is seen as an unacceptable footwear
fastening choice for adults.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I catch up with the others, overtaking families and spindly
elderly women, careful not to step on the hems of the flower-bright saris.
Entering the main hall, I’m hit by a heavy, almost-familiar scent of Indian
food. Not the sharp, onion-heavy cooking of the North, but a softer, rounder
smell. Steam from huge vats wafts across the doorway. A long queue awaits
patiently, very British-like, as food is served on bendy paper plates by men
and women standing in a military line behind tables.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">We’re here to find Mr Samaddar. Apparently he’s here…
somewhere. I don’t even know what he looks like, but I find myself searching
nevertheless. Maybe he’ll have something specifically Samaddar-y about him
that’ll single him out from all the other South Indian elderly menfolk here,
dressed in their thick woolly jumpers and chinos and sport socks.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">It’s us who really
stick out here, in our sombre academic tones of blue and black and grey, with
our rucksacks and awkward bodies. My feet, benumbed from walking about stone
cold stone churches all morning, begin to tingle back to life because this
place has the miracle of underfloor heating. I reflect that churches could
learn a thing or two about design from mandirs. We make a space on the floor
and sit down, creaking our legs crossed, and await the appearance of Mr
Samaddar.</span></div>
</div>
Amita Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08003141911678889126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056916350577298754.post-37295934283487707902015-03-05T05:56:00.000-08:002015-03-05T05:56:29.618-08:00One, Burgundy. Two, Plum - by Nazneen Ahmed<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfxU5OiA1ttDbrbVOy65S2SMTUaHdOjwr1bSMaX6kjcqroaXf1xGNylAvEVY8AEwxlVyQCJIap6mcIgwhzBtccHlYkhA1kTH9LLfl9XuZ7klua8qHA0uWVAmqlLsQJ10exoa6E_DPJyno/s1600/20150225_105155.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfxU5OiA1ttDbrbVOy65S2SMTUaHdOjwr1bSMaX6kjcqroaXf1xGNylAvEVY8AEwxlVyQCJIap6mcIgwhzBtccHlYkhA1kTH9LLfl9XuZ7klua8qHA0uWVAmqlLsQJ10exoa6E_DPJyno/s1600/20150225_105155.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Amita Murray</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">She walks up and down Whitechapel High Street going from
stall to stall with her list. She settles on one. The scarf seller eyes her up
with the predatory interest that comes with brand new, lost-looking customers.
But her stiffness, her concentration upon her list, don’t make her seem lost.
He continues to observe her, biding his time to intervene with the “sell”, but
curious too. She’s different.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">She pulls out scarves, one by one, inspecting the colours
and patterns. She carefully pushes them back, not quite satisfied, sometimes
glancing back down at the list. She pulls out a couple more and he decides it’s
time. “6 for 10, sister, 6 for 10” he encourages. She nods dismissively, going
back to inspecting the scarves. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">He wonders briefly if he should try some Sylheti on her, on
the offchance it might bring down that wall and he could begin what he did
best, selling those things no one really needs but buys and wonders about
afterwards. But maybe not Sylheti… Somali? Should he whip out some Arabic?
She’s hard to place. Facially, there’s something different about her that he
can’t quite identify. Her scarf is different to his regular Bangladeshi
customers’ hijabs. She wears it high, two layers, with a thick braid to one
side, like <i>hair. </i>How strange, to
cover hair with something that looks like hair.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">She begins to collect scarves that meet her approval,
checking them against her list. One, burgundy. Two, plum. A couple of patterned
ones. She pauses between a deep blue and a slighter greener shade, opting for
the greener one. A final one, black with a multi-coloured pattern. She looks up
and speaks in a stumbling posh Bangla, clipped with British edges, as she hands
over a crisp £10 note, folded into three. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Yeah, not from here. He turns to put her scarves in a bag,
feeling strangely vindicated.</span></div>
</div>
Amita Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08003141911678889126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056916350577298754.post-91201131116924603262015-03-01T02:09:00.003-08:002015-03-01T02:33:44.667-08:00Of Bikinis and Spiced Chai - by Amita Murray<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPH-ATZK2E-CxB4bypJaCR-1A7Ly-NdZ9g210EQRNddDCGI-wl7VM6OPO71niKtNAYCoH1SYks-_8r0wLprG0752pmSRrXx9gVcTXS1oC7wHW3qiNXwzw7Oq2pYPG4vDzX3gM9I5xHvE/s1600/DSCF0004+copy+-+Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPH-ATZK2E-CxB4bypJaCR-1A7Ly-NdZ9g210EQRNddDCGI-wl7VM6OPO71niKtNAYCoH1SYks-_8r0wLprG0752pmSRrXx9gVcTXS1oC7wHW3qiNXwzw7Oq2pYPG4vDzX3gM9I5xHvE/s1600/DSCF0004+copy+-+Copy.jpg" height="223" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detail of a photo by Ray Moller</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /><span style="font-size: large;">Bollywood dance video director Rohit Roy is sitting in his Mumbai office, chain-smoking his way through a medium-sized Guatemalan tobacco plantation, alternating between yelling into his shiny iPhone, and answering my carefully non-threatening research questions. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Fuck man! People want to see a girl in a bikini, I'll show them a girl in a bikini! What's the big deal, man? I'm liberated. We're all fucking liberated. It's modern day India, man. When is the last time you had a hair cut?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I hit the pause button on my cassette player and clear my throat. "I, uh..." I splutter.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"You're doing a PhD in California? You can make so much more dancing in my music videos. Why are you doing a fucking PhD?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">This is an excellent question, one I ask myself nearly every morning, at lunch time, and then again before bed. I think it is a rhetorical one, but I try to compose a suitably cheery answer in my head. His phone interrupts again, and he loses interest in the question. His hand apologizes to me. I beam reassuringly. My smile says that I don't mind that he's kept me waiting for three hours for this interview, that this is the seventh call he's taken in the last twenty minutes, and that his second-hand smoke is reducing my life span, as we speak. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I stare at the peeling paint on the lower third of the office walls, from when the monsoon floods hit Mumbai in the summer, at Rahul's ray-bans branded on to his forehead, his Lacoste t-shirt and the cardamom-spiced chai in his hands. His phone conversation finally comes to an end. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"So," I say, "tell me more about this woman in a bikini."</span></div>
Amita Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08003141911678889126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056916350577298754.post-7395439528939318882015-02-27T12:19:00.001-08:002015-02-27T12:19:45.265-08:00Journal Beauty Pageant - by RCJ<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH5bdjKYDT0dM7-ZGNUSvfub6kUVI1q987r3k2HoilXwE3HxtFQAv9OfPKzgpdCnCUesewPoJBiMVgy0AcbzJ0ZUGDVSPr_cUlCx4YmCQu1WdZ3IGbCkQfFE28iOl4_81CcIQJH-GzPXQ/s1600/20150225_105654.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH5bdjKYDT0dM7-ZGNUSvfub6kUVI1q987r3k2HoilXwE3HxtFQAv9OfPKzgpdCnCUesewPoJBiMVgy0AcbzJ0ZUGDVSPr_cUlCx4YmCQu1WdZ3IGbCkQfFE28iOl4_81CcIQJH-GzPXQ/s1600/20150225_105654.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bus Meet, by Amita Murray</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The journals sit side by side, each separate from the others, with covers facing outwards. There’s something oddly vulnerable about them, as if the fully visible front of each says ‘I’m here! This is what I have to offer - take me or leave me!’. On the left there is ‘CITY’, title in all caps, with black and pink, a bold look. The covers of some are peeling outwards a little, whether because of use, or condensation, or just cheap material I’m not sure. It gives this journal a trashy vibe - as if it’s the good time gal wearing high heels and slightly too much make up on a night out. This is especially true compared to the ‘Transactions’ and ‘Area’ next door: staid and sober Transactions with its classy green on white, and Area channelling a severe hipster monochrome look. ‘Talk of the Thames’’ look is just all over the place, multiple fonts, clashing colours and overlaid panels crammed together, jostling for attention. This one certainly needs a makeover before any prizes will be won.</span></div>
</div>
Amita Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08003141911678889126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056916350577298754.post-90205586649071210572015-02-27T12:16:00.000-08:002015-02-27T12:16:08.175-08:00At the Traffic Light - by RCJ<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Qnz9G1IjIPjrslLfLx8EgfgGAQXR_wt2rErK7-uFgo3zaoqLhyphenhyphenuFiuhM95b154AH8V-_n7d2J50hOUmcTxCPpEENgJulxC1MIbBvICABIen0dxirg5DIcYKMDacDmaOO55yrFaszCCY/s1600/IMG_2929.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Qnz9G1IjIPjrslLfLx8EgfgGAQXR_wt2rErK7-uFgo3zaoqLhyphenhyphenuFiuhM95b154AH8V-_n7d2J50hOUmcTxCPpEENgJulxC1MIbBvICABIen0dxirg5DIcYKMDacDmaOO55yrFaszCCY/s1600/IMG_2929.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by RCJ</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">It’s a lovely sunny day, crisp air and blue skies. Not much traffic either. There’s a faint rattle in the distance, getting louder, and louder still, then screechy brakes, and then the noise stops. She is breathing hard, but perhaps trying to hide it a little from the guy next to her, who has a fixed wheel, a beard, and wears a beanie hat rather than a helmet. Her own helmet is a garish fluorescent yellow number. She drags the right pedal upwards with her scruffy trainer and steps her foot down onto it with a determined little clunk. She stares straight ahead at the lights, jaw set, steely-eyed. Though just for a fraction of a second her eyes dart to the woman in front, clad in head to toe lycra, and her eyes narrow just a tiny bit. There’s that strange quiet now, silent but full, where several people have kept their bodies still all at once, poised on the edge of movement for just a bit too long. </span></div>
</div>
Amita Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08003141911678889126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056916350577298754.post-63805651763699961292015-02-27T12:06:00.000-08:002015-02-27T12:06:06.117-08:00Frictions/Pace - by RCJ<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detail of 'M however measured', Sister Corita, Kent 1968, by RCJ</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I was almost late. Checking and re-checking the time as I disembarked the train, then nervously scanning the street names as the bus puttered down the road, pausing for what seemed like an age at each of the traffic lights. Then I hopped off, staring down at my smartphone as I walked. On the corner there was a Ladbrokes with a couple of middle aged blokes outside. Next door a jumble of mismatched furniture and a bargain bin sat on the pavement outside a charity shop. The sight of the glaring green and yellow of Subway competed with the guilty pleasure of the smell of sausage rolls wafting out from Greggs. An older lady shuffled along the pavement and I stepped out into the road to pass her. As I walked along, the blocks seemed to loom taller on each side, grey and tall and faceless. I really was almost late now. Two minutes until the meeting, and it still looked like it was a way down the road. I was breezing down the pavement in a real power walk when I saw the blockage ahead. A lady pushing a pram loaded with shopping bags, and two policemen strolling with that slow, confident gait a few yards ahead of her. There was a railing to her right, and so I took a few jogging steps squeezing past to the left, bumping very her slightly with my handbag as I passed. ‘OI! Fuckin’ well look where you’re GOIN!’ - I jumped, slightly shocked. The policemen immediately rounded and barked out a deep voiced ‘alright, now’. Red faced, I continued along without looking back. </span></div>
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Amita Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08003141911678889126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056916350577298754.post-73290105513762478182015-02-27T01:07:00.003-08:002015-02-27T01:07:36.117-08:00Telling the Truth/Making Stories<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Amita Murray</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In the third workshop, the group practiced writing the "truth", using elements of storytelling. The idea was to draw an experience like a scene, instead of a summary. Some fabulous, moving, mesmerizing, evocative, tasty pieces of writing came out of this workshop. It was thrilling and humbling to hear the experiences that people had had in their travels, relationships, research explorations, and forays into the past. The pieces were at once dramatic and easy to relate to. </span></div>
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Amita Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08003141911678889126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056916350577298754.post-17523995875645720952015-02-27T00:56:00.001-08:002015-02-27T00:56:14.128-08:00Sweet Home Ayapua - by Tula Maxted<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Tula Maxted</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">All my ambitions, aspirations finally drawn together here. Everything complete. Standing on the </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">shore, stepping from the shore – over the gangway onto this incredible boat, on the most iconic river </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">in the world. The dark turbid Amazon water rolled past – never ending. The boat ‘Ayapua’, Peace, </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">restored with love, care, borrowed and cobbled parts. A resurrection of the spirit of those ‘Rubber </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Boom’ days way back. I would live here for the next few weeks with all the gentle creaks and shifts </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">as the full slow water ran beneath. The hum of the engines, the smell of mud, plants and all the </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">scent of the forest mingled here alongside the background of damp dust and moist air inside the </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">cabin. My cabin, tiny, oddly shaped, home. Looking out over the rail I saw pink river dolphins playing, </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">and playing to the crowd. Cavorting and diving. Their smiling jaws hoping for fish waste thrown out </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">from the galley. I looked back inside the room. The captain’s desk, small trunk, and the walls… The </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">walls! I realised with a quick jerk from reverie, the walls were ‘papered’, not with paper but with </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">very old lace. Obvious really, silk lace, far more lasting in the tropics. Paper would just be reduced to </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">a smear of mould in a few days. I could see then that the Amazon and all its component life forms </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">were not the only important things I would be learning about . The Ayapua also had a history, and a </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">mystery. All its contact-polished wood, black ironwork and burnished brass, all ready to explore. This </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">trip was going to be rich in discovery on all levels.</span></div>
Amita Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08003141911678889126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056916350577298754.post-70923744713267094722015-02-25T13:33:00.004-08:002015-02-25T13:36:50.743-08:00Closer - by Linda Fuller<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKrXgMaMAc_7XShrcEYKVGf0oyXN_Z4vAuse3s5trbgoikSxaZms9c3E7pwkZc6IjCbJJJgxMYZVvxyilShgBbK7c8rcrb412ZnCCY1Oo22D5uQ15CIdch0fUJ-wOZQeXAFvjUOIzMAdk/s1600/IMG_0086.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKrXgMaMAc_7XShrcEYKVGf0oyXN_Z4vAuse3s5trbgoikSxaZms9c3E7pwkZc6IjCbJJJgxMYZVvxyilShgBbK7c8rcrb412ZnCCY1Oo22D5uQ15CIdch0fUJ-wOZQeXAFvjUOIzMAdk/s1600/IMG_0086.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">‘We’ll try up Bracks first,’ he says as
they pull out of the yard, dawn breaking across the frosted earth, the sky wide
streaks of pink and violet, like a child gone crazy with the crayons. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>He leans over slightly to see past his
daughter and across the mere.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">‘Magga saw a whole family down there a few
mornings ago, down near Hundred Foot,’ he says, sweeping his arm out in front
of her. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>He looks over at
her, her long hair obscuring her face, and wonders if she’s bored. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>It was easier when she was a child,
running around the farm in her red wellies, sitting on his lap in the tractor,
pointing out the cows, the trees, the birds, pointing at everything. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>The glee of it she felt. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>He felt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">He let his eyes return to the fields, the
familiar. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>A map of crops and
hedgerows he could draw with his eyes shut. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Black fen peat that will soon turn
emerald and gold as winter recedes. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>He
lives this land, he’s made of it, every bone, every ache. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>He scans the horizon, searching, every
so often slowing down <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>where
he’d seen some recently.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">‘Look, rabbits!’ she shouts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">He smiles as they watch two rabbits bounce
along the grass verge, before disappearing into the ditch in a flurry of
white. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>He takes a
left off the main road and down a dirt drove.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">‘There!’ he says, breaking hard and
pointing to his right. ‘Do you see them?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">‘No, where?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">‘Three of them! <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Do you see, look, you see the gate in
the far corner of that field, look a bit to the left, the other side of the
ditch.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">‘Oh yeah! I see them! I see
two, bit I don’t…’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">‘The other one’s just gone behind those
brambles, look you can see his head, hang on I’ll get us closer.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">They bump across the field, and he stops
as near as he dares.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">‘Look Dad, they are looking right at us,’
she whispers, eyes fixed ahead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">They sit and watch in silence. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>The doe bends her head, pulling at the
long grass, then raises it and starts to lick the fawn’s back. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>The younger deer nuzzles against its
mother. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>The stag emerges
and takes a few steps towards their vehicle, the stops, statuesque, looming
large against the endless flat of the land.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">After a while, the stag turns and leads
his family away. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Long thin
legs slow and graceful, the follow the ditch in single file before disappearing
into a thicket.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">‘I can’t believe how close we got!’ she
says, grinning, turning towards him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">‘We’ll have a look at Hundred Foot before
home, we might see some more,’ he says, switching the engine back to life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Much later, long after she has returned to<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city style="line-height: 27.6000003814697px;" w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city></st1:place></st1:city>,
he thinks about that morning they shared with the deer, and he feels like
something has shifted. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>That
something lost had been, for a moment restored. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Though he could never have explained
this to his wife or daughter, or even to himself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>"A wonderfully evocative picture,
drawn by Linda, of the yearning of a parent to keep their child from
disappearing into adulthood. Lovely phrases like 'a map of crows' and 'the
frosted earth'." </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Amita Murray<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Amita Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08003141911678889126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056916350577298754.post-18424109709491545412015-02-23T13:32:00.003-08:002015-02-23T13:33:44.499-08:00Eclipse: An Unexpected Conversation - by Tula Maxted<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Memories, by Amita Murray</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I sat on a yoga mat, making a barrier against the red-hot sand. A camper-van nearby had stalled in a </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">deep rut, leaning over a little to the left and forward. There were thousands of people here at this </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">featureless spot in the Libyan Sahara. Europeans with cameras, telescopes, and baggage, Libyans </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">and Egyptians crammed into rickety vehicles. There had been many falling by the wayside, broken </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">down, engulfed by sand, all along the route from Benghazi. People collected up by other, already </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">overfilled coaches, cars even motorbikes, and wheeled carts. Here we all were now though, waiting </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">for the eclipse totality. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The boys from inside the van had gone off to make their midday prayers. The two girls, no longer </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">confined to waving at us foreigners from within the van, now crept outside. They huddled together, </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">nodding silently to each other then made their way over to me. They stood smiling, one of them </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">carrying a small book, held tightly in her hand.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">‘Hello’ I said, pointing to myself I added ‘my name is Tula’. I stood up and pressed their hands in </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">turn.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The older girl spoke, ‘Fatima,’ she said indicating herself. The made a gesture towards the younger </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">girl, ‘Lula.’ </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Lula grinned widely, ‘Same like you – Lula, Tula’. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">‘Yes’ I agreed, ‘Hello Lula, hello Fatima’.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Fatima opened up the book she was carrying and held it out towards me. I glanced at the page, it </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">was a book of English phrases. Fatima put her free hand to her chest and then spread her hand out </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">towards me. She marked a page line with her finger, and carefully read it out to me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">It said ‘I love you’.</span></div>
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Amita Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08003141911678889126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056916350577298754.post-42829667622087159142015-02-23T13:18:00.004-08:002015-02-23T13:18:42.045-08:00The Falls - by Regan Koch<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Regan Koch</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white;">A tap on the shoulder. ‘Please, do you mind?’ A young woman, eighteen maybe nineteen, in a radiant blue dress gestures with her camera. The water roars beside us, kicking up foam on the wooden planks. The falls are impressive; easily worth the ten-minute walk from the main road. But maybe not worth the 8,000 won. The whole place feels more theme park than nature preserve, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they were somehow fake. This place is weird like that. “I’d be happy to, I reply, reaching for her camera. “No, </span><i style="background-color: white;">with</i><span style="background-color: white;"> you’ she replies. Her smile is sheepish. She is embarrassed and I am confused. I then realise there are three of her. Ok, not three of her, but they all look alike to me. Long brown hair, hoops and heels. Except one’s dress is pink, the other’s is green. They look like they’ve dressed up to shoot a pop-video, or maybe go to the prom. ‘What, me with you, in front of the falls?’ I want to laugh, but I don’t. I can tell she’s serious and I don’t want to offend. ‘Avoid doing anything that might cause offense’ is the one rule I remember from the guidebook. </span></span></div>
Amita Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08003141911678889126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056916350577298754.post-62321888928357443092015-02-23T02:08:00.000-08:002015-02-23T13:19:43.043-08:00Matthias's Bliss - by Will Wright<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Will Wright</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; text-align: left;">This morning I wake up and I’m like “whoa, Matthias, what am I gonna do today?” I could </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; text-align: left;">hear the sea from my bed, and I’m like, “yes Mattie, I’m gonna hit the Point”. I love this. It’s </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; text-align: left;">not like ‘can I surf today?’ but the question is always ‘shall I surf today?’ So, I’m like, “yes, I </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; text-align: left;">wake up to paradise, I live in paradise”. I leave my place, and walk into the morning sun, </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; text-align: left;">hitting my face, hitting my face, oh man. So good man! And I’m walking to the beach, onto </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">the beach. And I’m like:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Beautiful sun.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Beautiful flower.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Beautiful sea.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Beautiful place.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I remember to give thanks for this.</span></div>
Amita Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08003141911678889126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056916350577298754.post-89273266514353799482015-02-22T09:30:00.000-08:002015-02-22T09:01:21.270-08:00Beaming Shaggy Man - by Joe Thorogood<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTW2xRmS3Zcy13rlg3Hfp3qgLOkU5LtmPQush7MO4x_-AEov09K1zQJ76PAkWMRla2iyqm79qSx_YLTR2R262AAcGo3FVaZQKf9ItrG8t8h2OCgLpUdzSwQi-24d-2UqFBUWJjnCXZXkw/s1600/20150216_111808.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTW2xRmS3Zcy13rlg3Hfp3qgLOkU5LtmPQush7MO4x_-AEov09K1zQJ76PAkWMRla2iyqm79qSx_YLTR2R262AAcGo3FVaZQKf9ItrG8t8h2OCgLpUdzSwQi-24d-2UqFBUWJjnCXZXkw/s1600/20150216_111808.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Diary of a Victorian Dandy, by Yinka Shonibare, Black Britain at the V and A</td></tr>
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<br /><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">He frowned. Neil Smith appears to be the only one who got a look in, or, looked at. The journal with the beaming shaggy man portrayed on the front was the only one with a dog eared tip, the rest stood stoic on the shelf, indifferent to the indifference they themselves are subject to. He sat drumming the table top in a manner not too loud, lest the chatty undergrads collected around a laptop in the corner were department informants, sent to do reconnaissance on him before the formal interrogation. Perhaps he should too give Neil a quick once over, to show just how academic and fit for this job he was. His reverie ended. No, he chided himself, they're here for me, not you Neil!</span></span></div>
Amita Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08003141911678889126noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056916350577298754.post-40641552976403057932015-02-22T08:58:00.002-08:002015-02-22T09:01:41.207-08:00Richmond Park - by Caroline Bressey<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not the Park, by Amita Murray</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">She walks slowly through the ferns, pushing them aside from the overgrown path. She pauses to </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">watch the plane passing overhead, turns to count those stacking up behind, 1 , 2, 3. She pushes on, </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">her hands trailing behind, as she pulls at the fern leaves crushing them between her fingers, but they </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">do not crumble and she lifts them to her face breathing them in before wrapping them around her </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">hand. As the ferns open out she is able to walk more quickly towards the ponds, her fingers </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">brushing along the top of the blankets of soft grasses, golden in the light that dances on the water. </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">At the edge of the pond she stops. A dog barks, but it’s a distant sounds and she does not turn </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">around. She kneels and chooses a stone, rubbing her thumb over its smooth surface before flicking </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">it across the water. It skims once, twice. She tries again. The third time she simply pulls back her </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">arm and throws the stone up high, towards the centre of the pond. It sinks with ripples and she </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">smiles. She looks back up the path the way she has come but then turns on her heel towards the </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">setting sun and the shadow of the oak trees.</span></div>
Amita Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08003141911678889126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056916350577298754.post-63350429710710013352015-02-22T08:54:00.004-08:002015-02-22T09:01:50.192-08:00Baileys and Hot Chocolate - by Joe Thorogood<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And Some Cake or Ions Patisserie in Borough Market, by Amita Murray</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white;">'Hey Guys, you thirsty, perhaps something to drink?' I wearily turned my head as far as the precariously balanced skis would allow. It wasn't even </span><span class="aBn" data-term="goog_1865187926" style="background-color: white; border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-bottom-width: 1px; position: relative; top: -2px; z-index: 0;" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ" style="position: relative; top: 2px; z-index: -1;">noon</span></span><span style="background-color: white;">, I hadn't got on the slopes yet! But my indignation softened as as I looked ahead at the icy piste snaking off into the heavy cloud that refused to bless the slopes with the much needed powder. At this rate they'd be closing the entire mountain, and their would be no more skiers, and no money for Ivan, as he had now happily introduced himself as. He needed me to be thirsty, since that was how he eeked out a living, subsisting of the drunken whims of passing tourists. I could definately spare the 8 leve it would cost me, and the lift queue to the sparsely covered piste was already formidable, as punters desperatly sought refufe on the upper slopes in spite of the ailing snowcover. I looked at the hopefully named,"Red Lion" that Ivan was no enthusiatically babbling about. "I hope you have baileys and hot chocolate Ivan!"</span></span></div>
Amita Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08003141911678889126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056916350577298754.post-38481259717425827812015-02-15T11:47:00.002-08:002015-02-22T09:03:46.804-08:007.14 - by Tariq Jazeel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reflections on Trains, by Amita Murray<br />
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<span style="font-size: large; text-align: left;">It’s the 7.14 to Ely, via </span><st1:city style="font-size: x-large; text-align: left;" w:st="on">Cambridge</st1:city><span style="font-size: large; text-align: left;">. Filling up steadily, with work
weary folk, tired, hungry, smelly, eager to get home. There aren't that many
seats left, but there’s still a full 7 minutes before the train leaves.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">There he is, I’ve seen him before on this train. Sitting in
a bay of 4 seats, studiously avoiding eye contact with anyone, but looking
quite expansive. Well, his slightly tatty, misshapen blue workbag is placed on
the seat beside him, scarf and gloves balancing on top of them. His legs
crossed, and the points of weird green shoes nearly touching the seat in front
of him. How is it possible for this bloke to effectively take three seats all
to himself? Every bloody evening. He’s pretending to be engrossed in that poxy
work thing he’s reading, must be an academic, this train’s full of ‘em.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">But I know he’s seen me, I know he’s doing everything in his
power to avoid acknowledging me right now, to avoid having to move his bag for
me to sit down, or to uncross his legs, pull them in, create some space for
others. Come on dude, look at me, I want you to move. I could, I suppose, sit
elsewhere. But no, I want this selfish fucker to move for me. I bet he doesn't
even use this train every day, during rush hour, like the rest of us. Like all
those work-shy academics, I bet he works at home when he bloody wants to.
There! I knew if I stood here long enough, he’d have to acknowledge me. Yes, I
do want to sit there mate. Haha, unfold your legs and move your bag sucker.</span></div>
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Amita Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08003141911678889126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056916350577298754.post-78770091969770445222015-02-15T11:45:00.001-08:002015-02-15T11:45:27.200-08:00A Whaling Ship! - by Tula Maxted<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Day in the Life of Tula<br /></td></tr>
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A whaling ship!<o:p></o:p></div>
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We lay side by side in the long grass, smoking flat foreign
cigs, spent all afternoon talking and snogging. I was very young. Geir, a few
years older, was a lot more life experienced. A merchant seaman, Norwegian,
tall, strongly built, with a gaze that travelled miles.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He talked about himself, half in mixed English and French,
half in mime and pencil pictures on the fag packet. “My father worked the
whalers, I followed when I was old enough. The ship was the biggest thing I’d
seen, a whole city on the sea. We caught whales and cut them up and everything
of the whales could be sold, used or eaten.” Geir paused, looked at the sky,
squinting… “There’s mist coming up river, it’ll get cooler.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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How would you start to cut up a whale? “Everyone does their
bit – sharp hooks to rip through backbone, then knives, saws, machetes,
anything. A dangerous time, all is covered with blood and slime, everything
washed down below deck. It takes time, we tire, there are injuries. But this
first trip was good, successful.” He lit a cigarette, inhaled, exhaled, brushed
a kiss across my mouth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Next trip was big, <st1:place w:st="on">Antarctica</st1:place>.
Weather bad, seas heavy. There were accidents. “Geir drew on the cigarette –
holding the smoke a while then exhaling slowly. “As I said, I followed my father.
We were in the catcher, chasing the whale. High waves and winds tipping us this
way and that. We lost our bearings in a trough, a harpoon line snagged under
the boat.” He took a last drag on the cigarette and handed it to me, “Finish
it,” he said, “I don’t want any more.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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He lifted my hand to his cheek. “So, there we were – towed
along by the whale. Very fast! The whale turned and made a great wash with his
tail. The boat tipped and three of us rolled into the sea, Lars – the Swede,
me, and my Father.” Geir patted my hand. “Lars just vanished, Father was
swimming, shouting to me. I was shocked with cold, stiff with fear, I couldn’t
get his words. Then I heard 'Swim – swim!' "<o:p></o:p></div>
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He squeezed my fingers tight, I bit my lip, said nothing. “I
swam but with no progress, the current was too strong. Then Father was beside
me, grabbed me close, hooked his arm under my shoulder, pulling me to the boat,
slowly, so slowly. Other hands hauled me aboard. Then my father was not there.”
Geir’s face was firmly set, bar a small tic in his cheek. He looked directly at
me, repeated, “My Father was not there.” He shrugged, “Now I work the merchant
ships.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Geir kissed my fingertips, stood up, pulling me with him. “I
smell salt from the river, the ship will leave soon. I must go.” He kissed me
once more, “It was good to know you.” Then he was gone, and I felt a little
older.</div>
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Amita Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08003141911678889126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8056916350577298754.post-28371186939139364572015-02-15T11:37:00.004-08:002015-02-22T08:47:16.317-08:00Euston Road - by Tariq Jazeel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXJ5JPPHKBE-Pmu3ZZg2UBaxrRP0CKRYSDCdxl0oLzChGAnSIxepjDwecPHmSh4PBCa0r4Rcwe5tFo8kUcgSd9L4Qbld8uWwkVsYgV0ZiBco_MtIw0aka8CIcOH6VSCuhyphenhyphenIV0KWLeOsys/s1600/20150216_113229.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXJ5JPPHKBE-Pmu3ZZg2UBaxrRP0CKRYSDCdxl0oLzChGAnSIxepjDwecPHmSh4PBCa0r4Rcwe5tFo8kUcgSd9L4Qbld8uWwkVsYgV0ZiBco_MtIw0aka8CIcOH6VSCuhyphenhyphenIV0KWLeOsys/s1600/20150216_113229.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Street View, by Amita Murray</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I’m crossing the road, along with what seems like hundreds
of others, walking in step with the flashing green man. I try not to catch his
eye, he’s coming towards me. Homeless? Maybe. Down on his luck? It seems so.
Knotted hair, grubby, long torn overcoat, dirty dark trousers. I think. And
why, oh why, is he carrying a broom? Like some kind of 21st century witch, or
wizard? No witch. I look away, hoping he hasn’t seen me looking. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Then, “ARGH!” He screams violently at me, not 2 metres from
me as he passes my shoulder. I jump, startled. Embarrassed that I jumped. He
scared me. He jolted me out of my voyeuristic conceit. Did anyone see me jump,
did anyone see how petrified I was for that tiniest of nano-seconds, how my
pupils widened, my body stiffened, and my stride was broken? Now I laugh, from
relief, my body relaxes, my stride and composure regained, I’m at the other
side of this interminably busy street, at last. So is he, I look back, he’s
meandering across the road, holding his broom purposefully. Going to god knows
where. God knows where, as I check my composure, and wonder about him. Where
does he go? What does he do? How was it for him? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Are they laughing? No, I think I’m OK.</span></div>
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Amita Murrayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08003141911678889126noreply@blogger.com0