Dreams of dereliction...

For some reason it's always late afternoon, possibly on a Saturday and certainly not in the UK; or if it was good old Blighty it would be a coastal location. There is no rhyme nor reason for this, but it would have to involve fairgrounds, the smell of beefburgers cooking, the waft of fried onions, the sound of diesel generators, the salty, weedy sea air and the sound of distant screams from the rides. If it's not the UK it's an American city, deserted and hot, Atlanta, San Antonio, Memphis, Nashville. Empty streets, darkened alleyways, an unnatural heat, a stifling summer, a sweet, scented air and I am there, somewhere, doing nothing, just existing, feeling the heat, down on my luck – or perhaps not – a long way from home both physically and metaphorically.

Somehow, it feels as if I have taken a wrong turn – again – but exactly why or what is uncertain, unknown. We are in the aftermath of something – good or bad I don't know – and I am getting used to a new reality, one that is slow-moving but unflinching, there is no way back and all that remains is coming to terms with my predicament. Exactly what time it is, I don't exactly know, but it's gone 2pm, probably gone 3pm too. Perhaps it's nearer to 4pm or possibly something like 3.35pm, edging towards 4pm even, and I'm feeling a sense of immortality, the day is infinite, there won't be night, just day, and heat and sea, a sandy beach, dunes, swaying trees and shrubs. Later a bedroom window open to let in the cool night air, the sound and smell of the sea and no need to eat until tomorrow. It's a timeless world where life goes on forever and I have no agenda, nowhere to be, nothing to do, I'm just there.

Would I even have a job, I wonder? Perhaps I'm retired, perhaps I'm wealthy and don't need to work anymore, perhaps I have small jobs of no consequence, just beer money. I like to think that I'm alright, that there's nothing wrong, no bad reason why I'm there doing nothing, enjoying blue skies and warm sea breezes. Perhaps I'm a bum, a tramp, somebody with nothing, or not much, waiting for the bars to open, or I might have been in the bars all day or on the beach with a case of strong lager, skimming stones in between swigs, trying not to attract any attention. Perhaps I live in a sparsely furnished apartment with a sea view and I'm just waiting for nothing. That's always the question: what am I waiting for, why am I killing time (if that's what I'm doing), what am I looking for, have I at last found whatever it might be; perhaps it's nothing, that might be it, I'm looking for nothing – not nothing, but something and that something is nothing.

There is a poem by Milton Kessler, Thanks Forever, which never fails to bring out some kind of emotional reaction from me, a sadness that isn't really there – or perhaps it is, I don't know, but a sadness nonetheless, a missed opportunity, a wrong fork in the road, a misunderstanding, a realisation that there was more to it all, that I never grasped the nettle or I lost my grip on it... and my grip on reality too, on the true meaning of things. Perhaps I was blind to something for a long time, but now I get it and while it isn't too late, perhaps it would be if I reached that mythical place, that sunny US city in the heat of the summer, that crowded beach and those distant sounds from the fairground rides. It might be that if I reach that spot it will be a case of it's too late, 'game over'. I need to wise up now before there's little point continuing. How would I feel if I got there, in the heat of the late afternoon, looking out from the darkness at the bright and deserted streets or the tea-coloured coastline of a southern English resort town. Would I have finally reached the infamous Last Chance Saloon only to admit I was teetotal?

Travelling by bus on a summer's evening, a warm breeze coming through open windows, I look at houses and apartments en route and seek out those shaded by trees or protected by tall hedges from the gaze of passers-by. I imagine myself living in these places with a slow cooker and on a strict dietary regime, plenty of vegetables simmering away and a welcoming aroma when I return tired, hungry and alone. And then, when I alight the bus I spot a large three-storey Edwardian house with a stone stoop, converted into flats. A large, green door and a shaded area of unkempt front yard, a parade of plastic rubbish bins with the local council's logo embossed on the sides. I stand under the green canopy of a sycamore tree and look up at a dormer window in the attic high above me and I wonder about the view looking down. Who lives up there, I ask myself, but don't have the answer. Perhaps it's me in another reality, a sadder, more desperate me, wishing things had been different, but then I'm reminded that things are different and that I am not alone as a small grey car slows to a halt on the kerbside, a familiar license plate. I smile and a friendly female face from inside the car smiles back, it's my much-welcomed lift home to a happy place – my home.