THE GOOD, THE ODD, AND THE AWKWARD

The cemetery would close in fifteen minutes. I made my way in, irrespective, wondering what would happen if I got locked in. It wasn’t enough time to take a meditative tour but I took a few pictures and read a few headstones. I kept glancing at the entrance every few minutes as I didn’t plan on breaking out of a graveyard. Then my phone rang. Sergio Leone’s 1966 Western classic theme song ripped through the stillness of the ground. That was my cue to leave before I find myself in a Mexican standoff with ghosts and shadows. I walked out of the gate feeling like Clint Eastwood on the trail of another bounty.

I don’t know what I’m looking for—maybe a poem. I’m immersing myself in the culture, aligning with the spirits, absorbing the aura. On my way from the Central Library one beautiful afternoon, I walked into Aura Fine Art, a gallery I’d noticed a few days earlier. I was fascinated by Andrei Protsouk’s artworks—his use of lines and sharp angles…the delicacy of sensuality. I also found Hue Folk’s artworks appealing as few of his available frames offered brilliant sarcasm. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I went back to the Church Cemetery—possibly for the art of the tombstones, immortalist architecture. There’s gold of inspiration buried somewhere in this city, and I’m turning every inch of earth to find it.

Taking a walk around the streets with Frank Ocean’s Forrest Gump plugged in my ears puts some pump in my swagger. The coherence of melody, the soft erotic edge to the voice, and the minimalist lyrics energize me. Armed with a smile, I cut through hearts of fauna and flora. A bee perched on the back of my hand while I steadied to take a picture. Stripes jumped the fence into my backyard, drawn by the aroma of my cooking, to have a taste of my dinner. Ash finally came close, rubbed its supine body against my leg and allowed me to stroke its shiny fur. On my way from watching the FA cup final at the Duke of Cambridge, a lady put her head out of a moving car and called out, hey handsome—at the exact spot where a white lady offered a big smile and a warm hug a couple of weeks earlier. A squirrel posed for a picture at The Arboretum. And at the coast in Skegness, Lola tried to kiss me—yeah, she’s such a dog!

I joined GOBS, a spoken word-poetry collective and reading club. I’ve become a regular at the Pint n Poets open mic at the Playwright pub. Blessed be the day I first walked into Pete’s gallery. It was an intense forty-five minutes of thrilling conversations ranging from arts to politics and spirituality. There’s a reason you walked in here, he said. He gave me the ticket for my first tram ride.

I stepped into Trinity Church on Easter Sunday and got into conversation with Matt, a Newcastle fan, a week later. I would later be invited to his house to watch the Toons’ penultimate game against Arsenal in his beautiful Attic sitting room. Nick, a retiree, an usher at the church, took me to his radio-controlled plane flying club at the race course. I started a volunteer role, teaching English to refugees and immigrants. I’ve become like fluid, seeping through cracks and crevices, exploiting smiles, exploring spaces. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Maybe a song. And a choir to sing with me.

But I must admit the sun goes missing all day some days. I stand in the middle of the park and wonder how anyone in his right mind presses the reset button midlife. I stand in the aisle of a supermarket contemplating the necessity of the item in my hand, planning, in my head, how to stretch the five pounds in my account to last the week. Who goes to a pub to watch football over a glass of zero coke? But why not, a pint would leave a gorge in my wallet! Sometimes I wake up to multiple unfortunately emails. Sometimes the cold is biting and my skin is itchy and my Prime subscription has to be put on pause. At other times, I say, fuck it, and go looking for the sun. I must admit, that I’ve had a great support system in colleagues and former classmates—friends turned siblings.

It was a beautiful three days at the coastal town of Skegness. I had a wonderful tourist experience—vibrant scenery, big breakfasts, big dinners! I watched Nottingham Forest succumb to the Blues in the final game of the season, missing out on the champions league spot, grinding the remaining pieces of a heart Manchester United had shattered, over dinner and a large pint at Woody’s. I filled my plate with turkey, roasted potato, Yorkshire pudding, mashed potato, broccoli, mushrooms, green peas and gravy. Back at the beach side the following noon, I had fish, chips and mushy peas. I tried the cockles too. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Perhaps carvery—a full plate with a bit of everything!

I’m intrigued by the culture of preservation here—you find memorials and mementos everywhere—what should be in ruin standing tall, what should be long gone, lingering—on park benches and love padlocks and corner tables in pubs. I tried to imagine how much beer you’d have to drink to get a nameplate sitting at your favourite drinking corner after your demise! Maybe I’m looking for the stories behind the bricks and cobblestones or the weather or the art. Maybe I’m looking to make poems—etch my laughter in the concrete of time, leave my reflection in the memories of every mirror I stand before. Leave a longing on every lip that has had a taste of my name.