Hand-scribed fragments of ideas. Splurged onto the page or the back of the hand in an unstructured, incoherent mess. In response to something. A podcast, a conversation overheard, a scene from the train.
The landscape appears smaller from the carriage at the back. I expect it looks the same from the front. Egg box hills and pan scourer gorse. Sand timer cooling towers levitating above matchstick stilts. Toothpick telegraph poles, split and splintered to grasp floating black cotton strands, connecting row upon row of identikit, flatpacked, pre-scored, cardboard houses. Roofs corrugating ripples through the monotony. The cooler plume the only white in a depressed grey sky, bored of its clouds-eye view of dull Winter fields.
A dog. As small as his tag and glistening as brightly. Yellow gold. A retriever. A Labrador. A Labrador retriever. The train has neither time nor care to stop and ask. The glint is gone, miles and minutes behind.
Graffiti. Urban art. Where’s the line? In the mortar of the bridge. In the city demarcation. The intent of the marker. The onlooker’s empathy, aestheticism and normative expectations. In the cost of the can and the age of the wall. In audience and reputation. In the essence of what constitutes an ugly fucking mess. Cheap ink on punched paper.