Air

–    ‘That’s air to you buddy, inhale and keep at it.’

Air is what we call it, and air is what we get.
I’m fond of the royal we.
It takes you places – to the supermarket, to the drawer, to the fiasco.

I’m fond of the fiasco, aren’t you?  Small delicacies of hot air, that’s one way to put it. Failure is another. It’s something you can total in your mouth, a car-wreck that dissolves over time into a debacle of tastebuds.  Unfortunate passengers peep from the lips, and scoop up the dry flakes of lip ice, craving moisture, and they stare down the throat, one after the other, looking into the airway for the things to come.

It’s been a while I have to admit. I try and keep a neat profile these days, after my last escapade – which was also tied to the bus movie (‘Oops! I’m sorry. I just made you miss your bus’) and the sequel in which I starred as an extra waiting in a very long line, busting, just busting, to go to the loo.

The follow-up film’s called ‘Four Parts Air’, and from what I can tell it’s about one man’s struggle with his God’s struggle, which escalates into a race, a bewitching tie and two distinct toots of a motorcycle horn. One man rushes out of the house, gets on the bike and drives off, raising his hand and bringing it down fast like a whip.

I was in the bit at the horse meet. For six days I stood desperately in line.

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