The Biology of Being

24 October, 2017
A series of shorts
Snapshots, potshots, that sort of lot

--
The lackadaisical lighting of the consultation area

descends upon hushed rushes at a mock paper.

Fans stir with sentimentality but still the air is 

still. Cupping the contours of glossy battlegrounds

drab in navy blue - hard, backless benches. 

They proselytise posture, aggrieve spines and 

demand more backbone; toughen up, I hear 

the sound of rain.

--

Math as portrayed in music is grossly oversimplified; The Proclaimers seem to take a lot of pride in being able to deduce that if they were to "walk five hundred miles" and "walk five hundred more", they would have walked a grand total of "a thousand miles". Bravo, guys - no wonder there is sunshine on Leith.

--

I leave later than usual and it is dark. My friend - one of those privileged to be reminded by an examination board that what they study is "Practical" - spent a few hours in a lab today doing just that - practical stuff. "Bio" somehow sounds very right when he says it. He speaks of moles and concentration. I only know of Holes and the lack thereof.

"Consult" is not yet bare on departure. We walk out and into the open, the white light behind us. Following a round path that leads down the hill, only the luminescent glow of activity from the school hall in the distance shows the way. The basketball team is training; I see scenes I know all too well, yet ones I have not known for long. If there is a biology of being and a chemistry of caring, then there must be a physics of fucking up. But I guess only biology can explain things that eat at you.

--

At the bus stop, a girl - probably nine or thereabouts - shows a sudden interest in something on the gravel, and bends down to pick it up.

"Mom, I found a nail. Someone might accidentally step on it." She dutifully drops the specimen into her mother's hand, which appears to be open only because it was compelled by the girl's voice. Before the grace could grow, however, a snide remark.

"Then maybe you should screw yourself" is the hilarious take-down out of the mouth of a boy who is at least half a head shorter than her, and presumably the brother. Having managed to suppress laughter, I revel in the unexpected wit just witnessed. The boy has a smirk on his face. The mom's is disapproving. Their bus comes, and so goes their nails and screws.

But then there was the lightning. And then there were the bolts from blue.