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Solvitur Ambulando y Dr. Dale Williams Barrigar

(All images taken by DWB)

Solvitur ambulando: it is solved by walking.

Kierkegaard, the great Danish philosopher, Christian Existentialist before there was such a thing, and wild-hearted comedian bachelor, said: “Above all, do not lose your desire to walk. Every day I walk myself into a state of well-being and walk away from every illness; I have walked myself into my best thoughts; and I do not know of any thought so burdensome that one cannot walk away from it.”

The fact that he also, quite literally, collapsed into the gutter and died while walking at the age of 42 in 1855 has nothing to do with it. He died while he was out doing what he loved. What better way can there be to expire!?

He was writing to his sick sister-in-law who was having trouble getting out of bed because of clinical depression. He was throwing down the gauntlet in an effort to try and get her to do something to save herself.

His most famous quote comes from a private letter.

Because that’s the kind of writer he was.

All dogs in all times and all places and of all sizes and all kinds, obviously agree very heartily with these sentiments, at all levels.

Dogs literally possess the wisdom of philosophers (maybe without knowing it but don’t be so sure).

It is said (and I have seen it) that they can also accept their own bodily deaths with perfect equanimity; because they know that this too is only part of the world; and they love the world – but not too much.

End Note: Thanks to the great Michigan poet Jim Harrison from whom I first heard this quote some time in the 1990s.

And, of course, co-starring, the one and only Boo!

Dr. Dale Barrigar Williams

F ICE by Dr. Dale Williams Barrigar

I deeply respect law enforcement because I deeply know that when the shit really hits the fan, it’s them who you have to call for assistance.

But when it’s them you have to start barring and blockading your door against, worrying that they’re going to barge in for no real reason in the middle of the night, times have changed around here for some of us.

Such things have happened in my neighborhood too recently – and there are many who say such things will start happening again soon, in earnest.

The world has never been a safe place for anyone – just ask all those folks who used to have to spend so much of their time keeping their eyes peeled for saber-toothed tigers around every bush, tree, rock, and boulder.

It was so hard to spend time scrolling on your phone when the big cats were out to get ya.

No wonder we find cats’ eyes to be so weird and eerie (as well as cute and cuddly).

Even now, too much comfort and complacency is a great killer in the good ol’ USA.

FUCK ICE indeed – especially if you have a heart of ice – no matter which side you’re on.

END NOTE/S:

I was born in Dearborn, Michigan, USA, which is the town where Henry Ford invented that thing we now call “the car.” In my birth town currently, over fifty percent of the population reports Middle Eastern or North African ancestry, which means it has one of the highest percentages of that type of population in the entire country. I very much embrace such diversity, even though I also know it can cause problems, especially for the ones who get kicked out of the place/s they used to live, which happens here in the USA, just like anywhere.

Regarding ICE barging into my apartment in the middle of the night, mostly I’m worried that if they did so, my Siberian would attack them and they’d shoot him dead.

That is why I bar and blockade the door/s in the middle of the night, so I can hear ’em coming, if they want to come, even though I’m very much an American citizen, born and bred, and hardly ever left to go anywhere else but here.

Because my Sibe and I would die for each other without thinking twice, if that’s what it took.

Dr. Dale Williams Barrigar

Mona Lisa Street Scene by Dr. Dale Williams Barrigar

“Mona Lisa musta had the highway blues, you can tell by the way she smiles.” – Dylan

The Mona Lisa Street Scene series arose on the West Side of Chicago, along Madison Street.

Sketchy people were wafting about there and here, buses were pulling in and out of the hulking garages, the El tracks were shaking with trains, cars going by, seagulls soaring above all in from the lake looking for chicken bones in the gutters, grass blowing in the vacant lots, garbage rotting in the alleyways, food smells floating from nearby hot dog stands (Chicago has more hot dog stands than McDonald’s, Wendy’s, and Burger King combined, even though McDonald’s was invented here and has its world headquarters here), leaves fluttering on the trees, weeds coming up from the cracks in the sidewalks, cats climbing on stairways, buildings groaning with ghosts, rats baring their fangs and claws, doves cooing and gently moving their wings without flying, but dreaming of flying, which is, after all, only – another kind of flying.

Because I’m feeling silly and I like to celebrate my city, these are the names of eleven comedians who are from Chicagoland, i.e., Chicago and environs: John Belushi, Jim Belushi, Bill Murray, Harold Ramis, Betty White, Steve Allen, Jack Benny, Chris Farley, Robin Williams, Redd Foxx, Bob Newhart.

Blue or Blue Bucket by Dale Williams Barrigar

(Note–We begin a new week of fresh looks at life by our own DWB with a study in blue–LA)

This little photo series attempts to illustrate William Blake’s justly famous phrase “to see a world in a grand of sand.”

It is like when Horton hears a Who!

Inside a clover.

Thank you Dr. Seuss!

With Picasso and Dali, you make a third as the greatest artist of the Western World in the twentieth century (say I, or says me).

It takes decades of patient and periodic study (including years away) in order to tell who’s better and one still doesn’t know: and will never know; but will never stop returning to the question (for a million different reasons)…

I do not have a favorite color because I heart all colors, but whenever someone has forced me to choose (yes, these are the things we used to discuss) my immediate answer has always been BLUE.

That answer has sprang (or sprung) so often to my lips that I think it must be coming from the depths of my being, a place so mysterious to me that I consider it more mysterious than the rest of the universe.

By far.

I don’t have much (including my pride) any more but that is mine.

I associate Blue with water, the sky, baptism, the word dale and all it implies, Dali, Picasso, Van Gogh, Rimbaud, Easter (the crucifixion), melancholy, sex (blue movies), and my (if forced to choose) favorite music: The Blues.

(Weirdly, some of us avoid sex for a decade or more because the aftereffects are always a drained melancholy; and we are too busy putting our energy into something else, like art; God knows why!)

I live not far away from the graves of both Muddy Waters and Howlin’ Wolf.

McKinley Morganfield and Chester Arthur Burnett.

RIP.

And: in my mind, you are still alive.

I do not know all the reasons why that fact is so comforting (quite) to me.

This picture series has three (3) titles, which is key: Blue; Blue Bucket; and Blue or Blue Bucket.

Signed,

The Photographer Because Everyone Does

DWB

Why I Heart Eminem by The Drifter

(Images by The Drifter)

“But don’t you place the blame on me / As you pour yourself another drink, yeah.”

– Eminem

I heart Ems because he talks about, explores, and explains what it’s like to be from Michigan, which means, of course, what it’s like to be from the American Midwest: “flyover country.”

It’s kind of like America’s greatest rock critic (by far), Lester Bangs, who always loved to wear his “Detroit Sucks” T-shirt while living in, and loving living in, the Detroit area, which is known as both Motown and Rock City among other monikers. I can’t believe he was only three miles down the road co-creating Creem Magazine while I was living there as a rebellious little kid. And yet, such is (weirdly for me as a person) true.

There is a simple four-part formula for understanding the essence of Eminem as an American artist, I say!

I speak here of his best, most mature, and most fully developed work, not every single thing he’s ever done. He is a very profuse, honest, sometimes dark, and prolific artist, and if I wanted to slam him, I could choose lots of things to slam. He’s also a very self-aware and self-critical artist – anything anyone can say about him, he’s already said about himself a million times before (much like the poet Charles Bukowski).

The four-part formula goes like this.

One: What it’s like to be from the state of Michigan.

Two: What it’s like to be from the American Midwest (“flyover country”).

Three: What it’s like to be an OUTSIDER.

Four: How the figure of The Outsider, in his work, becomes a symbol of the modern Human in general, plain and simple, and also not simple at all.

Someone once asked him if he believes in God; he said, “I don’t go to church, but I do pray.”

Such an answer shows how he is a kind of modern-day Everyman who modern-day Everywomen can also relate to.

Every place in America, and I mean every place in America, has great heroes and heroines who lived there in the past or are living there right now. By “heroine” and “hero,” I simply mean someone who can be looked up to in some kind of way; someone who proves that humans are, somehow, worth it; and can act as a representative figure somehow (which is also much more of a burden than it might sound like at first blush).

Because if we don’t question the fact of human nobility sometimes, we are blind and mad. And if we don’t ultimately believe that humans have that noble strain within them, we become someone like the current president of the USA, who believes that everything, and that means everything, comes down to nothing more than a monetary transaction, one way or another. Think well of other people – without being blind – and eventually you start to think well of yourself, too.

Eminem’s gated KMart mansion is fifteen miles away from where I lived for the first ten years of my life.

My parents were young and our neighborhood was modest and I often find myself back there in my dreams or in the smell of rain or snow or grass or in the warmth of the sunshine, all of which I learned there first.

We lived in the area where Eminem’s film 8 Mile is set.

Five of Eminem’s greatest songs are from his 2013 album The Marshall Mathers LP 2.

When this album came out, I was separated from my wife and broken up with my truly-beloved, soul-mate girlfriend (who I took up with only after my wife kicked me out and I also kicked myself out even more, which she tended to forget (about the girlfriend) a little too often, since we never lost regular contact while taking care of the kids, in front of whom we always retained a friendly family demeanor in between the poison barbs we regularly aimed at each other; see the quote from Eminem himself at the top of this essay for an example). Two people I deeply love were battling cancer (they got over it, but I didn’t know if they would, at the time; and one of them was her). And my mother had recently passed on. And I was losing my job, a process that took, on and off, two years. Unlike the cancer/s, I knew how this one would pan out from the start, but I never stopped fighting (even though lost in a fog-of-war confusion most of the time, at the time) until it was over (when I immediately plunged into a periodic three-year depression that almost killed me lots of different and exciting ways).

The Marshall Mathers LP 2, and especially the five songs I’m about to list, provided me with great, deep consolation, comfort, and inspiration at the time. For some reason, the album cover has one of my favorite numbers hidden in plain sight upon it: 946.

My two kids, who are forty years younger than me almost to the day, also love/d these songs, then and now, as do most of their friends.

This album was/is one of the rare times when great art and the American mainstream actually come together these days. Lana Del Rey, at her best, is another example of this; as is Taylor Swift (at her best); as is Lady Gaga – at her best.

“The Monster” (co-vocals by Rihanna). ALSO SEE THE MUSIC VIDEO WHERE RIHANNA WEARS BLACK LIPSTICK AND EXTRA-LONG FINGERNAILS!

“Legacy” (co-vocals by Polina).

“Headlights” (co-vocals by Nate Ruess).

“Stronger Than I Was.”

“Bad Guy” (the sequel to Ems’ great song “Stan”).

Remember the spirit of the 1960s (even if you weren’t alive at the time) and play it loud!

These songs are not really rap or hip hop per se; they are more like rap rock, like when he sampled Black Sabbath or Nick Cave on earlier songs; and even more like something one-of-a-kind in a genre of their own, a genre of Eminem’s own invention. Like all great art (including all great essays), these songs don’t really fit into any pre-conceived categories: at all.

But these five songs are so great, they can, very rightly, be compared to the best of The Beatles; Bob Dylan; Nina Simone; The Clash (London Calling); Nirvana. Yes, it’s true: Eminem, at his best, is that good.

Another thing many folks don’t know about Eminem: he took better care of his little brother than their parents did; and he took better care of his three daughters than their mother/s did (two are adopted, from his ex-wife with another man and from his ex-sister-in-law).

Unlike everyone else, he stuck around.

Exciting End Note/s:

I can also recommend Eminem’s powerful 2010 album RECOVERY.

Especially these songs: “Cold Wind Blows,” “Love the Way You Lie,” “Not Afraid,” “Going Through Changes” (one of the songs where he samples Black Sabbath, brilliantly), “Space Bound.”

This essay was written in a single burst while sitting in the car outside Frank Lloyd Wright’s Home and Studio in Oak Park, Illinois, USA, on May 12, 2026, which is right around the corner from Ernest Hemingway’s boyhood home. I do not use, and have never used, and will never use either grammar or spell check, believing my brain should be the one to do the work instead of any sort of a computer for a multitude of reasons some of which I can’t even explain. I believe that any typos or mistakes (if there are any) are deliberately made by something else. Therefore I let them stand if I catch them after a certain point (after my brain says “Finished”).

SEE THE QUILLEMENDER OF MY CO-EDITOR LEILA ALLISON!

(Borges rightly says that the real writer is never afraid to write a bad page.)

I saw seven GIGANTIC wild rabbits in Wright’s yard while writing this!

They were running around chasing each other because they know that it’s SPRING.

We Are Little Children, Forever by Jordan Eve Morrall

(Jordan Eve Morrall returns today with a combination of insight and perhaps even advice–The Eds.)

Everyone is living life for the first time. I’ve written about it. I truly believe that, throughout their entire lives, people have no idea what they are doing. While they may have goals and feign being put together, the majority base their entire lives around social norms with no thought of individuality. Yet, we let our fear of judgement from these same people hold us back.

Now, here’s another thought: in relation to the age of the earth and all the centuries of civilization that has come before, everyone is–essentially–a child.

The idea is twofold.

First: why should we model our lives after other children who are still learning how to live contentedly and will still be figuring it out, even when they come to die? Just do your own thing. (This concept ties in with everyone living their lives for the first time and has already been covered.)

Second: why shouldn’t we feel compassion for these people, these children, in their confusion and naivety? They–like us–are lost in a world they will never understand. It’s a scary life with so many challenges, choices, and changes. We must try to be empathetic towards everyone around us, everyone in the whole world. How could you hate anyone who is wandering, lost and alone? By default, if someone is rude to you, they themselves are hurt or scared. If someone is lazy and unhelpful, they are overwhelmed by the demands placed on them; they don’t feel they are capable. They are children.

Scenario: a 40-year-old man insults you. So what? He is a literal child. Compared to the length of time people have been being born, going to war, inventing all manner of things, and dying, he is an infant who knows nothing. You can’t take his words personally or as truth.

We must love one another and work together. We must encourage one another and never lash out. If a child does something wrong, yelling never does any good. Gentle guidance does.

We are all children looking for a loving friend. Please be that friend.

Jordan Eve Morrall

Poetry Is by Frederick K Foote

Sometimes

Poetry

Seems

To be:

A hammer, a stiletto

Pretentious, modest

A mummer, a scream

Propaganda, the gospel

Fucking and sucking

Gorging and fasting

Ducking and dogging

Slick and slimy

Profound, profane

Soulful, senseless

Ass kicking, ass kissing

Soft days, sick nights

Hallow ground, wasteland

Nigger ways, White rights

Blind insight

Wasted words

Tidy turds

Null, void

Dead

and

risen

again

Frederick K Foote

(The image is Mr. Foote)

Two Poems by Frederick K Foote

She Is by Frederick K Foote

She is

square blocks

of white

marble

Substantial

in every way

Riding a

prancing pony

of pride

Hiding

a dark

nag of

doubt

Love in a Modern Time by Frederick K Foote

It sneaks ashore like light leaking under a doorway

It has the magical mischief of effortlessly joining the family

with a handshake, a hug, a kiss, a fist bump, a cough, or a sneeze

It loves the lonely, the incarcerated, the institutionalized,

the suffering, its love consumes them, banishes them, and It

is restless even in Its domination and seeks authority over nations

It humbles science, the military, politicians, and commerce

the world dances to its tune of isolationist separation

It alienates our affections and laughs at our insurrections

It will not accept our peace terms or unconditional surrender

It will love us where it finds us until it finds us no more

Frederick K Foote

(The image is of our friend, Mr. Foote)

Two Poems by Frederick K Foote

(Ed note–We are extremely pleased to present the first five poems submitted to us by Frederick K. Foote. Fred is an esteemed writer, poet and social critic. He has published over a hundred short stories on Literally Stories in the past ten years alone, which is but a small portion of his literary canon. He is a many times honored author and we are pleased to run his poetry: two today, two tomorrow and a single one to conclude this what we hope will be the first of many runs to come on Saragun Springs–The Eds.)

Lusty Religion

Cedar-wood skin
Sinful full lips
Halo round ass
Full paradise thighs
Bible bright eyes
Gospel singing hips

Revelation to disrobe
salvation to explore
Damnation to lose
no resurrection
in sight

Terminal Romance by Frederick K. Foote

My heart skipped a beat when you appeared
arrhythmia, with rare ventricular couplets

My eyes respond when you are around
glaucoma abounds, the pressure astounds

The sound of your voice is music to my ears
tinnitus echoes a siren’s timpani song

The sight of you snatches my breath away
emphysema squeezes my air to a trickle

The touch of your hand is more than I can bear
your shingles spread to my face, hands, and hair

You are my everything, always and forever
my affectionate end-stage affliction of choice

Frederick K Foote

(The image is that of Mr. Foote)

The Red Square on My Finger by Paul Kimm

I know she’s going to say it’s silly, and I’m being silly, but there is a square on my finger, on the top right of my right-hand index finger, just under the nail, to the side, a little red square. It’s not from a scar, or any kind of cut, because I’ve done nothing to cut myself, and it’s not from any kind of pressure either, as I haven’t been holding anything for long periods, or anything heavy, so the red square is from nothing I’ve done. Anyway, it’s not even a filled in square, but an outline in red, as though someone has meticulously taken a red biro and, whilst I was asleep, or not paying attention, has somehow managed to paint or draw this perfect red outline of a tiny square, no more than three or four millimetres in size, on the top of my right index finger, just below the nail. Anyway, the long and the short of it is that I don’t know where it’s come from, it just appeared there a couple of days ago, it’s completely smooth, won’t wash off, and hasn’t changed colour or anything like that, just a red square on my finger. I haven’t mentioned it to her yet, and I know it’ll somehow annoy her, but I have to bring it up at some point, and am a little surprised she hasn’t noticed it and asked what the red square on my finger is, or more likely asked me why I’ve drawn a red square on my right index finger, but I’ll raise it tonight over dinner. It’s my turn to cook, so if I make an effort, then she might be more receptive to talking about the square on my finger. That’s it, I’ll go to the supermarket, buy food she likes, cook that, and then after dinner, just casually bring up the red square.

In the supermarket I’m careful to choose foods she likes, but also foods that can’t be accused of causing the red square. I mean she likes a three bean chilli, but kidney beans come in a tin, and opening the lid could cause pressure and leave a mark, then there is the red of the beans, and the thick liquid they come in, not to mention the same with a tin of chopped tomatoes, the fresh red chillies, the seasoning, a lot of which is reddish too, so making a three bean chilli is too risky, and whilst I’ve never seen a red square on my finger before when cooking a chilli, it could be decided that’s what it came from, and my claims that it was already there would be most likely dismissed, so that’s off the menu. So is beetroot, so no feta and beetroot salad as a starter, nothing with tomatoes, nothing that requires a tin opener, or too much chopping for that matter, and nothing with any kind of red seasoning, and so the more I walk around the aisles the more I seem to be crossing ideas off the list. In the end I settle for a pre-made vegetable soup that comes in a plastic tub, with some fresh sourdough bread, already sliced and packed, and then for the main a salad, as she does like salad with soup, but one in a ready to serve pack with lettuce, grated carrot, and sweetcorn, for which I can rustle up a dressing with what we’ve got in. The good thing is nothing is red, or in a tin, or needs chopping or seasoning with anything red, so none of it could cause a red square on a finger.

By the time I get back home, I’m not sure where all the time has gone, being sure I’d left the house early afternoon, but it seems the time in the supermarket stretched to a couple of hours, so I need to start getting the dinner ready as we like to eat early, no later than five really. The problem is, and I should have remembered, but we are out of olive oil and mustard, two of the things I’d hoped to mix, with a squeeze of lemon juice and salt, to make the dressing for the salad, but now need to think of something else. In the cupboard there is only soy sauce and some apple cider vinegar, and then in the basket where have we have our collection of dry seasoning there is black and white pepper, some pink Himalaya salt and a bunch of other dry spices, many of them red, which I can’t use. In the end I mix some soy sauce, vinegar, black pepper, and lemon juice from the plastic container shaped like a lemon and stir it with my finger, and then taste. I figure it’s good enough for the salad, but then realise I’ve used my finger with the red square to do this, and can’t believe I’ve forgotten it was there, but see that the skin is fine, and there is just a little sliver of brown from the dressing under the nail, but the red square on my finger is still completely clear to see. I can still tell her about it after we’ve eaten.

We eat, as we always do, or seem to always do nowadays, and I’m not sure when we started, in front of the television, watching a cooking show of some kind, watching people preparing food, tasting it, commenting on it, whilst we eat ours, that we’ve just prepared, and we might say something about our own food, but say more about the dishes on the screen, how they look nice, whilst we fork or spoon in what we’ve got, almost as though were eating two meals, the ones on our laps, and the ones on our screens, and sometimes I can’t tell what I’m tasting, and the soup and salad we have on our trays could be the dishes on the screen almost, because those are the ones we look at, just not the ones we eat.

‘Did you enjoy the dinner?’

‘Yes, nice and simple, just perfect.’

‘Sorry it wasn’t a three-bean chilli. I know that’s one of your favourites.’

‘Not at all. Soup and a salad with that lovely bread. That was perfect. That dressing was lovely as well, different but really nice.’

‘Ah, I forgot to get more olive oil and mustard in. I will tomorrow.’

‘No worries, will you go in the morning with me when I go to work? I can drop you off if you like.’

‘Ok, thank you. There is a reason I didn’t make the three-bean chilli though.’

When I tell her about the red square on my finger she puts her tray on the coffee table, and then takes mine and does the same, and puts her arms around me, and we cuddle in, her hands rub up and down my back and she tells me over and over that it’s fine, saying my name a lot, repeating the same words, but not asking me anything about the square, just saying ‘Oh, it’s fine love’, as she squeezes me, and I want to ask her what she thinks it’s from, how the square got there, but she holds me in closer, tightly, almost like she doesn’t want me to speak about it, and when I motion to say something she repeats the same words, and this goes on for a few minutes, and I’m grateful she’s not annoyed that I’ve done something stupid with my finger, and we enjoy holding each other, so I decide to not ask about it at all, and a few moments after I’ve decided this, we break off our cuddle, and she says she’ll doing the washing up. We pause the cooking programme, take the trays into the kitchen, and she tells me to go and sit back down and we’ll watch their desserts after she’s finished.

She wakes me up in the morning so I’m ready to get a lift to the supermarket on her way to work. It’s not much out of her way, but she might drop me off at the corner just down from the railway crossing so she can keep going without making a detour, and that’s completely fine I say, but she asks me if I’ll remember the way to the supermarket from there, and even though I tell that I will, she asks me to tell her the directions from that corner to the supermarket, and I describe the few minute walk to the crossing, where the tattoo shop is right next to the crossing, then after it you turn right, and the supermarket is just on left a few more minutes down, before you reach the train station, and she tells me that’s good, but then asks me how many minutes in total, and I answer five or six, and then she recounts for me the directions I’ve just given, and asks me again if I’m sure I won’t forget, and I tell her, I won’t, I’ve done it a million times, and there is no need to worry.

To change the topic I ask what she’d like for dinner, and she says a three bean chilli would be nice for the end of the week, and I tell her I hadn’t realised it was Friday already, but then I remember the red square on my finger, and I don’t want her to think, when I get round to telling her about this red square that’s appeared, that she thinks it’s from the chilli, or from the kidney beans, or even opening a tin of beans or chopped tomatoes, so I ask her if she just fancies something simple and quick like a soup and salad, with some nice bread for a change, and in a quiet voice she says that’ll be fine, and adds to not forget to buy some mustard and olive oil, for the dressing, and I say yes, I’ll make our usual salad dressing that she likes, and when she drops me off on the corner, just down from the crossing, she asks me if I’m sure I won’t forget the way to the supermarket and, and I say I’m completely fine, I remember the way, and I also won’t forget the oil and mustard because I don’t want to make the three bean chilli and that’s how I’ll remember to get soup and salad, but I don’t tell her that part.

As I approach the railway crossing the signal starts to whir and blink, and so I wait for the barrier to slide down wondering if it’ll be one train or two and how long I’ll be waiting to cross. It could be more than a five-minute wait, so I look in the tattoo shop window just next to the crossing for something to do whilst waiting for the one or two trains to pass. The display has sheets of white paper with designs of black-outlined dragons, roses, hearts, snarling tigers, topless mermaids sitting on rocks, ships, jumping fish, unfurled scrolls with a variety of names on them, all in the same curling script, and collections of football club emblems, all in lurid, hypnotising colours, bold greens, blues, and reds, yellows, purples, that are all beautiful and bright, vivid caricatures of reality, of life. The barrier stops whirring, and as I turn my eyes away from the window display, someone comes out of the shop.

‘Back again?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I said, ‘back again’. Are you wanting another square? Perhaps a triangle or a circle this time?’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand.’

‘Aha, it hasn’t worked then, has it?’

‘What hasn’t worked?’

‘Never mind, pal. Your missus said it might do something.’

‘My missus?’

‘It’s alright, mate. She was doubtful anyway. I shouldn’t have said anything. All the best to you.’

He goes back into his shop, and I hurry over the railway crossing, take the right turn down towards the train station, the supermarket being on the left down that road before you reach the station, and I’m there within two minutes, so I get a trolley from one of the rows outside, and enter the supermarket, take a breath, as I’ve got there fast, and then I comb up and down the aisles to get something suitable for dinner, something that won’t raise suspicion, something that couldn’t cause redness or any kind of indent on my skin, no tins, or anything like that, avoid red foods; beetroot, even though she likes it, especially with feta cheese, and I definitely won’t buy any chillies, so I can’t make her favourite meal just yet, not until I’ve told her, and I need to make sure that she couldn’t think it’s from something else, that it’s definitely unusual, so I opt for a plastic tub of store brand vegetable soup, that’ll go well with the ready sliced sourdough they have, so all I need is a nice salad, not one with anything red in it of course, but maybe some lettuce, grated carrot, and I’ll make the dressing at home, with the olive oil and mustard we’ve got in already, that I’ll mix with a little bit of lemon juice, and a quick pinch of salt, so dinner will be a lovely soup and salad, and she likes that, even though we don’t have it that often. And, I realise it’s got later than I expected, it’s after one, but still gives me lots of time to get home and make the dinner; a dinner which can’t cause any redness, so that I can tell her about the red square, just the outline of a square, that has appeared on the top of my right hand finger, out of nowhere, that she’ll probably say I’m being silly about, that she may get annoyed about, and say it’s from opening a tin, or chopping something, but I need to tell her, so after the nice dinner, I’ll just bring it up like it’s nothing, the red square on my finger.

Paul Kimm

(Image is of Mr. Kimm)