Flip flip flip, pages swifted through. Lines and points, lines and points of the chairs with the desks in front. Frup to all but the last page and back cover. Silent photos, still letters of the alphabet dancing at the top and bottom of the page. Feeling of the hard edge of the desk under trouser, one shoe flat on the chair the other hanging, pulling on my leg muscles.
The empty classroom. Vacant blackboard. Birds performing various activities in the sunlight outside. Stillness within the windows. No walls, by design. Just metal strips between a wall of panes, with a blackboard and a set of noticeboards at each end.
Two-high rows of doorless wooden lockers from the floor to the windows – about waist height. Twists and scraps of white paper here and there in the wooden compartments. Notices on various pastel-coloured sheets hanging from corners on the noticeboards.. Boring in grids and tables.
I’m sitting here thinking I should be feeling some definable feeling. Thinking that there’s a legitimate reason for sitting here. I guess it is weird, cos it’s empty. Up until now, pretty much all of the time when I was here it was full of activity. But, honestly it doesn’t even seem like the same place. It feels like an innocent entity, used and then discarded. The fact is it wasn’t discarded at all, but abandoned. The people were taken out and discarded.
Healthy, bright, green grass shooting in sprigs from the nobbly-surfaced concrete. So many right-angles making up the memorial statue. Mostly all in the same, flat grey, everything in the square. Even the road, as if constructed from a single piece.of the stuff. A moulded shallow rolling around the statue and back out the way it had come.
Flat white formica in a big, rectangular piece, above the dark-brown painted wooden skeleton of the shop window of a shop. A single magazine or newspaper rack, almost the height of me, standing inside. Where did the others go? It’s just standing there on a floor, of various materials, eternably scattered with bits and scraps of things, lines, cracks and sprigs. Two or more of the same kind of thing throughout the square – and I thought that replicas were always mass-produced in factories. These things are largely the same. Mass-production isn’t an unnatural thing at all – it’s the most natural thing in the world. You’ll be saying that leaves were made in warehouses, next.