Dingle-Dong

Can you hear the kids laugh and cry ?

Hi, I’m Mick, Mick Bornough. I’m a 19 year old teenager. I work part time at a writing press where I do assistance for copy writers.

These days I just feel like a mad-man. I have become a stray. I wake up whenever I want and I do everything in whatever way I want. I go out for walks at 2 or 3 AM caring about nothing. Write words all over my body. Say provoking things and believe in Magic.

One night, I got out at around 1 AM and walked for 2 hours. At 3 AM, there were a few cops patrolling and they found me walking towards them. I was silently going to walk past them but one of the cops just raised his baton horizontal to stop me.

He asked, “Hey, what are you doing so late in the night”.

I did not know what I was doing, I mostly went to enjoy my stray life and listen to some music. So, I used a template from my minds canned responses.

I replied, “I had a late dinner tonight and I am feeling very bloated. So, I came out for a walk officer. You might know how terribly painful constipation is, right ?”

He said, “You should just walk in your society premises. You never know that someone might come and snatch your phone or hurt you however they want”.

I replied, “Sure, I’ll be mindful. Thank you and good night!”

I felt like I was being just way too polite. But, I think that was a right move or else they would’ve locked me inside for a complete night.

Later, I realized why there were cops. Recently, a murder happened in the city at late night. Two teenagers ended up fighting and one of them stabbed the other in the neck. The victim lost his life. I read the news a few days later and the fight was over just 200mg packet of weed.

Nonetheless, I’m going out for a walk again tonight. But, I’m taking the subway to go a bit far in the cities old suburbs. I’ll be walking in Kirktown West tonight. It’s a beautiful locality with old brick buildings and beautiful art on them. A lot of those paintings were made during these rallies that used art to promote their propagandas. Nonetheless, an old friend of mine always said “art with purpose is just propaganda”. And, I believe in him a lot.

I wore my over-coat and my teal winter-cap to cover my ears from the cold. I wore my shoes. The new Vans knu-skool which I bought very recently. I sat down to wear stockings and the shoes.

Now, I know over-coat with Vans is not really a good combination. Vans are moreover good for street style and oversized clothes. But, you gotta be mindful that I’m just a broke student who barely makes any money. All the money I make is by selling fancy stationary holders in my school and CD’s.

I got my bag on my shoulders and locked the door from the outside. Then, I did the ritual of putting my keys safely in the bag. Because, I don’t want to get a new key duplicated for the 4th time in the same week.

I reached the station on time for the last subway to Kirktown West. This was going to be an hour long of ride in the subway.

I absolutely love subway rides. They allow you to think about becoming more and more lifeless while making efforts to make something out of your life-less life. I don’t know how much sense I make while narrating this to you, but don’t be afraid. You are a lifeless chick too!

I usually have two to three books in my bag just lying around. It has been very long since I read a book, so, I loosened my bag’s mouth to see what all I had in it. I had “All the Lovers in the night” by Mieko Kawakami, “The music of chance” by Paul Auster and “Stray!” by Mangesh.

I said, “Damn! I really have a great taste. Those are quite interesting books. Not really in the mood to read Mieko’s innocence and isolation. And, I really want to save Nashe’s Twenty Thousand Dollar car ride across California for my travel days”.

I think by now you know which book I was going to take out. It was obviously, “Stray”. And thank god, I had the bookmark on the right page. I started reading from Page 37. It was a brand-new chapter titled, “Drugstore Percussionist”.

This writer for some reason is a real dimwit. She knows nothing about how to write but somehow manages to write decent things. Sometimes, the writing is so brutally honest and grotesque that I lose my mind over what she’s thinking. It’s exceptionally detailed and feels like she’s trying to create her own style of writing. It’s absurd, grotesque and I think I can also say It’s different “different”.

There’s an interesting line written on the last page of the book. It says, “Oftentimes, people fear and question what I write, but I’m like ‘so what? that’s the only way she likes’”.

I don’t really know how to express. I’ve always liked doing different things myself but I don’t know what those “different” things are going to be. And, this is what she literally wrote in one of her previous chapters. If I remember the title correctly it was called, “His confessions!”. I read through some of the pages in this chapter. It does not really make sense, but I’m sure this might have some kind of a connection ahead in the further chapters. I’ve always felt that only she knows what these absurd sounding titles mean. The trend of title has always been really weird. One of the titles said, “Van gogh in every single step of mine!”. It is probably that she painted “The Starry Night” on her shoes or something. Never mind, she’s a beautifully admirable dimwit nonetheless.

I checked which station I had reached by now. I looked out of the window and realized the ride was still going on. The indicator on top of my head said that the next station was “Boroughs of Birmingham”.

I was 2 more stations away from Kirktown West. So, I placed the bookmark on Page 42, closed it and slid it back in my bag. I took out my iPod and plugged in my in-ears.

I feel like a stray every single day. One fine day, I took a pink marker and wrote “Stray” on my neck. I managed to pull it off because these days I practice writing alphabets in a horizontally flipped view. I honestly don’t know what I do and why I do it. Probably, this is why, I’m a stray.

I don’t think you can guess what I’m listening to. This song makes me feel more like a stay. It’s a punk-rock song called, “Cruelty Loyalty”. It’s a really interesting song. It begins with the soothing #G note and after the first 2 stanzas of the poem. The song rapidly switches to 200 beats per minute which makes it punk. It’s about being cruelly loyal to who you are and what you are.

If you focus on just the capella, at one point it says,

Just this sight, One more night, We won’t cry, But I’ll fly high.

I feel so relatable with this stanza. Just this night in Kirktown West, I have one more night for myself. Tonight, I will not cry. But, I’ll just keep flying high. High in the dreams of becoming more and more stray.

I stood up and walked to the door and waited till it opened. Walked outside the station and it had started snowing a bit. I whispered, “Girl, what a night we have in front of us” and lashed my tongue out of my mouth on the corners of my lips. And, I smirked.

I got out of the station and started walking towards the beach side. It’s not a beach per se. It is a beach, but just not a beach-beach. You can understand what I mean. right ?

You are not allowed to go on the actual beach, but it has these raised high seating pavements away from the water. I often go and sit there.

I was feeling excited because this whole time while reading and listening to music I was surreptitiously building a story in my mind. It is titled, “Pink Frock”. For now, I just had some essence for the story in my mind and just the title.

This is how it is for me and a lot of others who are writing and lying. I end up having titles in my mind all the time without anything back and forth. I can’t really act up on them unless I actualize everything. I wish, I could wear a pink frock right now. Because, for me these titles are just closed doors of some house. It’s a Christmas night and I can’t really knock on the door because the family sleeping inside might wake up from the sleep. So, I have to wait forever until they wake up on their own and come out to a fiery sunshine in this cold. So, I just wait out in hunger like a wolf.

It’s almost going to be late December. So, as an American grown kid, it’s my duty to listen to Tchaikovsky’s “The Nutcracker”. It is the essentials and I can’t survive for another year without listening to the Nutcracker.

I get really excited when I’m telling people about “The Nutcracker”. It’s a piece of finely crafted art. Especially, Op 71, specifically, “Part No 10. The Magic Castle in the Land of Sweets” and “Part No 12. Divertissement, Mother Gigogne and the Clowns” and “Part 13. Waltz of the Flowers”. I think, all the parents should download these audio-tracks on their kids phones. And, let the kids feel the symphony during these cold Christmas nights. I am sure, they’ll be as overjoyed as I am while writing this.

When I listen to The Nutcracker, you can say, I have a large domino setup in front of my eyes. And, as the melody flows the dominos start falling. I was very deemed to have Uncle Pat from Nashville introduce me to Tchaikovsky and his romantic melodies.

I was lost in The Nutcracker, but I saw a visceral and cruel scenery in front of my eyes. I was passing from the front of a 4 star restaurant called “Chateau Windsor Hotel”.

A bunch of rich people standing on the turnpike street and beside their group there stood a very small kid with pink flowers in his hand. He stood as if he was trying to sell it to them. They did not seem interested and showed great disgrace to him and asked him to get away from them. I don’t fucking understand what are the rich so greedy about ? Most of these motherfuckers have generational wealth surfacing over their fat-rich tummies. But, they still are greedy dimwits.

As I was walking, I realized, I had a few pounds in my pocket. I went to the kid and held them in his hand and said, “Cool! Now, go get yourself whatever the fuck you want!”.

That is when, one of the evil-looking woman said, “He might just get himself a cigarette or a packet of mary jane. You better save the money for yerself kid”.

I replied, “None of your business. He might have put some thought behind whatever action he takes. Everyone has their own brain. And, he is brave if he can choose his own poison”. To be very honest, the lady looked really like an evil witch. She had a big and pointed nose with only a straight strip of hair painted white. She was beautiful, I must say. Witches can be beautiful, right ?

She said, “Huh! Whatever”.

I walked past them and saw the sea in front of my eyes. I walked a bit more ahead on the turnpike street to find myself a place of my own. A place of my own in this world where I’m sharing everything with the others. Even time, my time, it’s not mine. We all are sharing it. It passes for all of us. It stops for some because they run out of it, but it never stops for the others. We are sharing, sharing and just sharing everything with each other.

I took a seat and sat over there listening to Op 71, Part No. 14 “Pass De Deux”.

I have been thinking about “Time” a lot recently. If you’ve read my previous essays you might know that I’ve always said, “Time is my best friend and he will always do his job of passing on”.

There are times when I feel like a Vampire and I hate the day light and there are times when I’m waiting for the sun to shine bright on my face in hopeful-ness. I am saying the truth. It is really that way. I am not a vampire and neither a human.

I started feeling very excited and jittery because I was having immensely strong images of “Pink Frock” in front of my eyes. They were very strong, I swear.

I started smiling while putting my head down on the edge of the seat. My legs waving themselves to freedom. I took my cap-off and fixed my hair. I wanted them to feel the breezy wind as well.

All of a sudden my phone rang and the screen glowed with the name, “Papa” on it. I whispered, “Ahh, after so long!”.

I quickly picked it up and said, “Hey!”

He replied, “Hello, how are you doing ?”

I said, “I’m doing just fine! What about you ? Did you have your dinner ?”

He said, “Yes, just done with it and I came out for a walk. While, I was walking I got reminded of the times when we used to play soccer late in the night!”

I replied, “Ahh, sweet memories just memories now!”

There was some silence for a while and he raised his voice to ask, “What did you eat for your dinner ?”.

Well, I did not eat so I did not know what to say.

I replied, “I think, I had chicken curry and rice”.

He counter questioned my answer, “What does I think mean ? Don’t you remember clearly what you ate ?”.

I replied, “Ahh yes, my cognition has become a bit slow due to work stress these days. But yes, I swear I had chicken curry and rice”.

He said, “Okay!”.

I thought for a few seconds and asked, “What’s the temperature in London now ?”

And he answered, “It’s quite cold here, around twenty-three degrees Fahrenheit”.

He said, “All right then, take care and have a good night. Sleep early!”.

I replied, “Yes, Good night. Please give my love to gracie and our little piano girl”.

And then he hung up the call.

For a while, I had tears in my eyes. I don’t know why, but I felt like crying for a while. Tears flew through my cheeks after the call for some time. It is this way for me. Sometimes, I just want to sit and cry, I don’t really know what is the reason behind these cries.

I talked to myself, “I was there the moment he had sweets and simple words” like a recorder.

By now, it had already been an hour since I was sitting there thinking and listening to The Nutcracker. I was almost on Part 17 by then. I unplugged my in-ears, coiled them together and put them in my bag.

I got up from the seat and started walking back to my place. It is not much of walk. After 2 miles of walk, I’ll take a taxi and reach back home in around 5-6 pounds. I don’t really want to burn so much money. But, I’m not sure, I just want to go home and write out my excitement about the “Pink Frock”.

While walking, I felt really excited and anxiously naughty. I smirked the whole time. I was beating my inner sides of wrists on each other to get rid of the cold. People usually rub but I was beating them over each other wildly.

I started walking faster and faster. Someone disturbed my sub-conscious walk with a whistle!

I looked at the side and there was a woman standing beside the Restaurant & Bar, “Bella Muerte”. She had a long, slender and shiny cigarette holder kissing her lips lustfully.

She said, “I have something to offer!”

I knew what she meant because she was a fucking prostitute. Though, she was really beautiful.

I replied, “Ahh sorry, but I don’t want any of your offerings! Gracie, my mom, she told me that Uncle Pat fell in love with one of your likes and then she gave him HIV”.

And, I started walking past her continuing with my own excitement.

After a while, I spotted a taxi driver waiting at the Crimsons Circle. I whistled towards him and asked him if he wanted to go.

He started the engine and completed a quarter of the circle to come in front of me. I opened the door and slid myself into the taxi. It was really warm inside. I was getting more and more excited, jittery and energetic with constant smirks wearing themselves over my dry from the cold face.

Then, we drove towards my apartment.