Like a big healthy
Shit what is that?
Is that food?
Looks more like a
Shit it's gooey in the middle.
The deep fried Mars bar is apparently an iconic Edinburgh dish. The Fringe Festival is also iconically Edinburgh.
In Edinburgh we ate a deep fried Mars bar. Alex bought it and I took the challange of eating it. Of finishing it. Of putting as much of it into my body as possible. I ate it all. I ate every bit of that disgusting exuse for a dessert.
I even enjoyed most of it.
Then ten minutes later I wanted to puke. I felt sick. Not because it was as disgusting as I was saying it was, but there was just so much of it in my stomach. There was so much. My stomach was crying and my taste buds could only register thick chocolate-caramel. It was all consuming and it was gross and I still ate it. It was an experience. So was the Fringe festival.
Heated at such a high temperature, everything formed one mass. I couldn't tell the taste apart anymore. Until you find one sweet lump of nougat, a diamond in the rough.
The crusty deep fried batter was just a thin case holding it all together. Pierce it and out would flow the melted belly.
Leaving a mess, clinging to the plate, my teeth, my tounge.
I felt overwhelmed by all the sensations of the thick gooey mess that I was absorbing. Eating.
I was overcome. I'm not sure what I had expected but I'm not sure if my expectations were met. I felt sick and left only with a chocolate stained plate. I wasn't sure quite why this was the 'thing' to eat.
But in the end I was satisfied in a way, because I had tasted something extraordinary. Something unique. And in the deep fried steaming, shit like mass was a collection of delicious parts. The caramel, the chocolate, nougat. And the sickness in my stomach was maybe just a symptom of eating too much before, for feeling sorry for myself, that I had a cold.
I wouldn't say I wouldn't eat it again but I would be hesitant to cook one myself.
And after that I saw a show at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival.
After the Storm
Lights flashing blue and purple.
Cracks over the Grand Canal.
Looking up as nature makes its own fireworks display.
People begin to scurry through the well watered streets,
And when the window is closed,
You can still hear the rumbling from outside.
The sky turns lavender,
Just for a second.
I can't hear the pitter patter on the roof
And in the morning you never would have known,
That Noah had his ark tied to a post on the Grand Canal.
The sky is empty
And boats sail gently past.
The sun hits hundred year old buildings
And the water turns a clear blue-green.
If I took a picture,
It would only tell you half the words.
At the 55th Biennale Arte
At the 55th International Biennale Arte, 2013, 5 Romanian performers, re-enacted exhibitions from previous Venice biennales.
Elsewhere in the Giordani pavilions, gold coins fell from the sky, indoor forests were walked, cups of tea were served, performers moved to improvised music and silk blew in the breeze.
On the canal outside the pavilions of the 55th International Biennale Arte pavilions of the Giordani, vaporettos sailed past on the waters of the 500 AD old city and pigeons flew dangerously close over the heads of tourists in Saint Marks Square.
The bells chimed and the lion kept watch over Lady Venezia.
I am terrified. Terrified that there isn't enough time. I knew that this part would feel short, that it would go by so quickly. I had thought that what would come next would seem like forever. But now there aren't enough days in a week and I want to be everywhere all at once. But I will come back to you. At the end of August, in a year, in five years, until I die but I will return to you.
If only you weren't so far away. If only I could dig a hole through the centre of the earth just to be closer to you. But I would wear the skin off my hands and then I wouldn't be able to hold yours. And if I had wings they would only get in the way of our pretty hand holding as you guide me through the streets and get me lost.
So I'll wait, biding my time until I next see you and maybe then you will still always feel special and you will always feel new.
My hat will get wet in the rain but when the sun comes out it will dry. In the winter I'll wear big woollen socks and tie my scarf around my neck like a python.
Maybe it will snow and I'll watch Love Actually for the 300th time.
There is too much to see for such a short amount of time and I could return forever and never have seen enough. And where is the time just to sit? To sit and watch you, moving and changing with the light. As the lights go down you look so pretty dressed as a Christmas tree.
I have not been with you to sit by the water and I haven't been with you to take a bubble into the sky, but we have sat on rooftops and sipped cocktails while everything drums on below.
You beat the drum and I follow. Down alleyways and past old bluestone. My feet trip over cobbles as my face stares up and all around. One drop, two drops it, it starts to rain. My hat is wet again but it's ok because I love you.
It would seem strange that a sparrow would be out on such a hot day.
Yet with sun to spare and her collection of wares,
A brief tune of her song bird's voice would make you believe that a summer's day was intended for such a sweet northern sparrow.
And as she flew away into the distance of the wide green expanse,
We walked on into the sun,
Sweat crying from our skin,
We are nursed back to health by the sweet touch of the almighty god A/C,
But we go on,
Away from His chilling fingers,
Twisting in and out of this too ripe apple.
With every juicy bite we find soft bruises,
Travelling down deep to the core.
Sweet and foul aromas contend for our attention.
Our eyes are captivated by the constant glow and flash of lights,
Forever illuminating the city that never sleeps.
A car horn,
Millions of voices make the hum of the city drum at our ears,
Frustrating our senses,
But in the night when the sun goes down,
Leaving to rest its weary head,
The residual warmth wraps us up and draws us out tenderly into the night.
As the city continues to churn and burn,
We fly further and further into the flame,
Into the net.
There are tired eyes and tired bodies at rest all around and in the distance.
As the lucky disregard their sleepy rights,
Unfortunate eyes close their lids to the turning all around and lay their heads down on the concrete steps.
And in the hustle and bustle souls move in and out of frame, slipping through the cracks,
The watchman at his post announces the arrival of the A train to deaf ears.
A car horn,
Snapped back into reality,
Or slipping further into a dream?
The shadows of the buildings creep across my heart and leave an explainable longing,
And a song bird calls me out of the distance,
Suddenly recalling the magic of this place.
As each new footstep leaves a mark on the jungle floor,
A light goes on in big, and little boys and girls eyes,
As they ask their question...
Was this place made for me?
Art thou afeard?
No, monster, not I.
Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices
That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me that, when I waked,
I cried to dream again.
This will prove a brave kingdom to me, where I shall
have my music for nothing.
When Prospero is destroyed.
And who are you Caliban, what other name shall I call you by?
In this place do I wake or do I dream? Or in waking am I only dreaming?
This brave kingdom to who's shore I have been cast, puzzles me.
Sweet airs I have known, yet there is something rotten in the state of... All this pastiche.
Prospero stills reigns, he is everywhere and in all things.
He is the God, still, of this isle and the people worship him in their daily rituals.
And all those who are cast on these shores fall deeper into the spell and Prospero grows stronger for it.
His spell is in the air, yet I or you Caliban could be king of this island. That is what you tell me.
And you are then under his spell too monster and it seems we are all slaves to the music of the island.
And we may all one day have music for nothing.
And I will worship at the temple of Prospero.
Yet I will be king.
Their heads bent, their leg just touching, they ride like one eager person through the town the asphalt zig zagging where the fennel grows and... The wind so strong that they have to fight their way through, rocking like old drunkards- Katherine Mansfield, from 'The Wind Blows'
Held upright but propelled back.
So strong that actually, I am motionless. Stiff.
Stuck in the wind.
Alive with the weight and energy of the wind as it hits me.
King of the world.
Queen of the Windy City.
Watching the lights flickering on the other side of the bay, through half opened eyes.
I am moving nowhere but I am moving fast.
I'm a big hunk of steel held in the air.
Roaring with noise.
Roaring through the wind.
The wind roaring through me.
Ripping through time and space.
Clouds sucked past and left for dead.
Held by nothing.
Surely you can't put a human in the sky!
I am on this piece of stone.
I am in the air.
I am travelling, through.
To the same place I was before.
But where is this sunny place I just woke up?
Time is a mystery, everyone must stand alone.
I hear you call my name.
But this isn't home.
I'm in Dorothy's tornado and this isn't Kansas anymore.
But the people don't look so different.
And there's Coca Cola all around.
Welcome to the Windy City and despite appearances...
My feet are on the ground.