Skip to main content

An Artist Goes To The Shops


There was no one there, I thought. The shop walls were lined with wonderworks and an island of efficacious products occupied the central floor space. Customers could walk between the shelves in a circular route, dazzled by abundance. There would be something worthwhile and thirst quenching in this place. I stepped in, beginning my curious study on the right hand aisle. I knew there would be staff, of course, imagined that something of import had to be fetched or a kettle to be switched for boiling up water, leaving the counter empty for a short while. Meanwhile, there was no one there but me, I thought.
Too abruptly and too close a face appeared and asked: 'Can I help you?'
Were my nerves not steely I may have shrieked. I was reading shampoo ingredients, though this was not the main purpose of my visit. I put the bottle back on the shelf unashamed. I was being distracted because I was paying attention to my immediate world. Great art and happiness can stem from that meandering root. One cannot be ashamed of it, if one is to be a happy artist. I opened my mouth with confidence.
'I was thirsty so I wanted something to drink. Not shampoo, I was just looking at that.'
She frowned and stared before she remembered to be helpful. She had a strained look, like she was trying to remember some staff training guidance. 'Something to help you sleep?'
'Er, no, just a drink to stop me being thirsty.'
She thought for a moment of how she could help with this. 'Chill cabinet's over there.'
The shop was barely two metres across. I could see the cabinet clearly. It was the only break in the shelf lines. There was only this circulatory route. I would be distracted perhaps but not lost on my travels.
'Thank you.' It would, howsoever, be unnecessary to appear churlish.
She escorted me regardless.
'Beetroot,' I said, lunging for the cold glass door. I got my own bottle and surreptitiously checked the seal. 'Thanks.'
As she reached out her hand to drop the coins of change into my open palm I saw briefly under her sleeve cuff. The human skin was a disguise: the real skin was a gleaming scaled green!
I resumed my stalk through the district's charity shops, and could not help but question my experience. One does like to invent stories for discarded objects and now also for suspicious assistants in health food outlets. An alien, I tell you. Tried yet failed to put me to sleep with a poisoned root vegetable beverage. Also this cup and saucer clearly and formerly belonged to an elf.



Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Contact Pants Conundrum

There is weather today, I do note it: take a few moments to reckon the size of a cloud (big) and the frequency of rain (sporadic.) Centre of my interest though is a stack of magazines. Not the fashion kind. This is martial arts research. I'm not even sure what it is I'm looking for, but intuition calls loud. A range of old adverts skew some amusement. Contact pants, for example. Pants are not trousers where I come from. They are underwear. Professional contact pants: improved smirk value. But why would a person be likely to purchase a grappling hook and a lock pick set? For specialists and hobbyists only, the blurb assures. Guidance on the pheromone spray that attracts women against their better judgement? I doubt it works any more proficiently than the mysterious potion that defines your muscles while you sleep. But, then: I wonder is some sprayed on this paper? What was my intuition thinking, making this ghastly shout… Tea break time. There's a lot of words...
2 comments
Read more

Back From The Future Blog Party

Another joint blog adventure- if you want to see who else said what the list of participants is here . The premise is this: 'You're up before dawn on a Saturday when the doorbell rings. You haven't brewed your coffee so you wonder if you imagined the sound. Plonking the half-filled carafe in the sink, you go to the front door and cautiously swing it open. No one there. As you cast your eyes to the ground, you see a parcel addressed to you ... from you. You scoop it up and haul it inside, sensing something legitimate despite the extreme oddness of the situation. Carefully, you pry it open. Inside is a shoebox -- sent from ten years in the future -- and it's filled with items you have sent yourself. What's in it?' Here's how I imagined it: Before dawn? Shadows outside, first forming. Sleep has gone, I don't know where. Coffee I can find. All the way from Machu Pichu, this fair-traded pack. Scissors are in the drawer, which ...
26 comments
Read more

Hometime Foam Time

It was hot outside, cold indoors. When we were freed from the hall I opened my car thinking oven gloves might be required for driving. I was weary. I was lined up for a row of shifts- but the evenings are lighter now, and the beach was calling. I drove a wiggly route to Veryan (the road I chose was closed) and down to Carne Beach. Since I had checked the weather the wind had turned easterly, and the tide was in. There were waves smacking over a disappearing line of fine sand. Undeterred I wriggled my swimsuit on and went to play in the foam.  Neither air nor sea was particularly cold. Blue and cloud patterned sky, blue and turquoise patterned sea, flowers blooming and swooshed by the wind, and the warm brown crags of rock: to be here was to be directly connected to the source of all existence.  Home time was foam time, and vice versa. Afterwards I sat in my car, door open, eating a square of dark chocolate, watching the white flecks and trying to work out if the dark dot was a...
Post a Comment
Read more