Photo album

I am sitting at a bar, outside, on a high stool. I vague off slightly and let my gaze float upwards while my companions talk. There is a tall thin terrace building opposite me. On the third or fourth floor, I can’t remember, there is a small balcony which has so many bird-cages hanging from the ceiling that it is crowded with cane globes twittering. There is also a breeze up there, which I don’t feel where I am sitting, and so each cage waves, the birds inside jump around as small black dots where I am, it looks alive, the whole space looks alive. It heaves and ripples in the breeze. A man comes out onto the balcony, facing me, I am surprised, he looks down leans over – is he emptying a teapot? From the air? – he drops a bag and I see that this is his rubbish, ready for the street collections that come by on foot. He looks down, satisfied, turns and goes back inside the house.

Flowers at the markets, flowers in flat cane baskets on the back of bicycles. Flowers in bunches, each rose bud wrapped carefully in tight newspaper to protect them in transport. Splitting newsprint with crimson red peeking through.

Yellow roses – they adorn every hotel room I stay in, and I am growing fond of them.

Caged dogs spotted through the city and at points along the highway make me feel sad and responsible, like a co-conspiritor in some cruel and unlawful imprisonment. Their lack of words does not make them mute, they speak very loudly and I feel ashamed, I can’t explain to them why I will not respond and give them their liberty. To see and do nothing is a terrible feeling – to do this with witness is even worse.

If I stay here much longer my hair will dredlock, or turn into wild clumps of straw. For a humid city it sure makes my hair feel dry. Maybe it’s the pollution.