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Sean Urquhart
Sean Urquhart
An ailing, pathetic scribe who sees no point in punting himself like a Portobello whore. Read my blog amd weep for me, pals. An utter failure,


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Posted in Arts / Literature / Contemporary

Tachyons: Human meat in Helinki

Jul. 5, 2017 6:08 am
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Distortion. City symphonies of sheer pomp. Hard to take.Hard to defy.

The flow of my walk is stilted, wobbling on the tarmacbursting with the anti-matter of nature. I surrender to the pain, the ageingcorpus keeping time with the other bodies drifting through the energies of thecity. I am freeing my spirit from the inner space of the now. What you see isnot what is reality. It is merely a trip through your own conscious creation, asubjective and ultimately lonely trip of the five bare senses we are offered asproof of ours and others’ existence.

The noise fades and is replaced by the sounds of thought,pure and complex. A malt whisky of a day and night: the air zings, rips with asalty tang. Graham was in his element in the exile of Helsinki. London wascalling, via mobile burners and bad memories. Freed from the past lives inHornsey, Hackney and that disaster in Glasgow, he was another tourist taking inFinnish Romantic architecture and having the very occasional expensive lager.He composed some mental concrete prose as the flow of the city ate away at thefringes of his doubt. Mentally, he was in OK shape. Physically, he was a goodten years off the knacker’s yard. Boxing clever, he dodged in and out of coffeeshops looking for the woman who had captured his imagination. No joy. No phonenumber or email. Nowt. Midday was a long wait for the karaoke that his matePhil so beloved. Phil. A romantic fool with bad faith and a list of brokenrelationships that left him on his tod in the sink of hell as he jokinglydubbed his new place of residence. Graham wasn’t complaining. It was clean, notthe same sharp sting of pollution that London offered up as a bonus and thesummer was proving to be something approaching fun in one of its forms. Grahamwas a melancholic soul: sad brown eyes and a deeply lined face that depicteddefeat on some levels. Phil was a cherubic ageless 30 something, a doughyphysique that the svelte blondes that he courted felt safe and secure with; aliving, breathing teddy bear with a smile for everyone. A good lad, just a bittiring. Graham found all the optimism enervating and longed for the drab greyof his previous life. Freelance lecturing when you’re nursing a hangover isbloody hellish and Graham had taken to self medication with strong Finnish beerchased down with navy rum. Not a good morning after the long, light summernight before.

He was dead, mum. Staring at me with glassy eyes. Why? Thepast. The spaniel lying in the gutter. Tyre marks on his russet body. The awfulopen chops. The driver laughing nervously as he got out his wallet for a pay off.The bad old days. A career in the law in the offing after that particular dayin Alloa. 1989. Ten years old and already street smart and full of barrack roomlawyer expertise. Now he taught politics to eager well-off post-adolescentsthat were clear-eyed and ambitious. It was exhausting and he was glad ofa.Monday off to spend getting lost in his newish environs, Three moments wasenough to make his acquaintance with the streets and bars and Metro system. Tohim it was like the year’s secondment in Newcastle when he was in vice; lots ofnightlife and a Baltic nip in the air.

Phil held his mobile in a trembling hand. What had he done?He was on the floor of an Eira apartment with a stab wound and a thirst thatwould take while lochs to slake. No one else on the scene, though he wasworryingly naked and covered in his own filth. Graham, he’d bell him. He’d knowwhat to do. Or at least give sound advice. Coppers never really move on, alwayskeep the training as a hard analogue. If only he could stop shaking.Unconsciousness followed, the type just before death brought the curtain downon a good fourth decade. The pain went, as his body hit the wooden floor. Eyeswide open seeing the grain of the wood as a parting shot. Nice grain, goodpolish.

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