outwait outrun outwit





TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile


03.29.06, wednesday night

During the bus lift north, I thought, This is the landscape of my novel. Grey, fog-bound, desolate, full of trees crowned in cobwebs. I watched two Hitchcock films: Saboteur and Shadow of a Doubt.

I didn't take any photos in Belfast, which looked more American than any other city I've seen in Europe so far. Those empty, vast streets of new brick buildings, metal roll-downs, and derelict storefronts awaiting another Hitchcock to capture the city's rainslicked midnight menace.

No nightcaps were had, but there werea couple of fantastic bookshops, a bulwark of gun shops and Christian paraphernalia shops, overpriced Indian food, and sleepless nights of Loyalists lads on the corner, chanting for a fight.






<<

hosted by DiaryLand.com

free
web stats