The driver

Mostly I drive my car like a considerate road user and law-abiding citizen. I observe speed limits and follow the Highway Code. An old car like mine begs to be driven with reverence and sympathy, bearing in mind it has rolled some 90,000 miles. I was educated in the “mirror, signal, manoeuvre” school and reckon I could comfortably pass my driving test again, thirty years on. So how does all this mature motoring proficiency benefit me? Well, when the occasion demands, I know how to drive like a maniac!

The problem with cruising sedately and courteously is that it represses our natural instinct to race. That eight year-old Ford usually behaves like an armchair on wheels. You have to wind the motor above 4,000 rpm for it to become an altogether different proposition. From time to time this reckless behaviour bursts through and reasserts itself, transforming the faithful family saloon into a tarmac-burner. So often music is the trigger to this exuberance on an empty and inviting country road. “I been drivin’ all night man, sweat on the wheel…”

… floor the gas pedal and drop the clutch. Rubber screeches for grip on tarmac as old steel is pushed hard through the gears. In fifth at eighty all four wheels leave the road over a crest, hitting ground again just as I stand on the brakes for a sharp right. Throw it into third and scream out of the turn drifting left. Eyes scanning the open horizon, I see the empty roundabout ahead. Hold the needle on sixty and straight-line the junction, hands crossing on the wheel, tyres kissing the curbs left right and left before hurtling on.

A flat-out downhill stretch puts one twenty on the clock. Golden Earring thunders from the stereo, “…we gotta thing, that’s called radar love.” Unblinking I watch a tightening left approach fast and drop through fourth and third, shedding speed and listening as the engine note rises and the exhaust spits. Heavy braking now for a blind crossroads, then hard acceleration in second, gripping the wheel over familiar bumps in the road. Flicking left and right through back streets and slowing all the time as civilisation approaches with its speed cameras and pedestrians.

The old Ford noses gently into my driveway and glides to a halt. The softly purring motor belies its age. Now I think I fancy a lay down.

change of heart

crooked smile and lazy wink
broad grin and twinkling eye
boyish charmer slightly shy

blue sky high gear rolling
top down sunshine cruising
huge horizon music pumping

fragile self esteem falling
false laughter seldom smiling
desperate sorrow barely breathing

sinking shoulders and curled lip
ugly glare and furrowed brow
blinking back angry tears

fire deep inside the belly
bitter anger in the heart
but nothing on my mind

all an act a stupid game
life’s a cunt death’s the same
I lost my mask am I to blame?

life

a comet spitting orange fire delivers by chance
its elemental payload to some giant lifeless globe.
a chemical sea of sulphurous foetid waves
is warming by degrees as a stellar furnace glows.

vacuum stretching epochs will map the crimson sky
as gravity exerts its pull on time and tide.
orbits dictate climate eclipsing light with shade
while random moving bodies converge and then collide.

precious squirming life crawls from stinking pond to hill
grows beaks and wings and learns to climb the clouds.
seasons produce golden corn; man tames the savage beasts;
order settles cautiously over nature's chaos.

intellect brings culture where art and science flourish
then walking talking rapists murder friend and foe.
technology rampages to final mushroom war,
through cataclysm all is lost, nothing left to show.

mayhem

music and love
love and life
life and death

prismatic beauty
intellectual acuity
soul penetration

precipice fingernails
200 feet per second
vertical chasm

sentimental torture
nervous exhaustion
emotional collapse

cerebral atrophy
arterial sclerosis
cardiac arrest

degrees of life
death by coma
flatline

Emotional Scale

euphoria
ecstasy
delight
pleasure
interest
curiosity
ambivalence
indifference
disappointment
sadness
grief
misery
despair

Fire in the Sky 2

"…narrow beam of light which retracted suddenly into the craft. Air Traffic Controllers and Military declined to comment, however local law enforcement say they are keeping an open mind. And in other news…"

Alan propped himself on one elbow and reached out to silence the radio. He fell back and stared at the ceiling. Waves of nausea pulsed in him and he groaned. Fucking flu, he thought, that’s all I need. He nudged his sweat-soaked pillow onto the floor and remembered it was a weekday. I’m getting up to phone in soon, he decided. Mid-morning street sounds came as if squeezed through a tube. Distant traffic and far off shouts lowered to a whisper. Sunlight filtered through the blinds.

Fragments of a dream floated in his mind. Cold hands pressing him flat on a steel table… shrill voices screeching in his head… a ring of grey faces watching him… eyes, black and lifeless... the persistent whine of drilling… an explosion in the nape of his neck.
Hours later the sun had moved and a chill breeze stirred the air.
"Alan, pick up if you’re there… Alan…?" The answer-phone bleeped and fell silent. Sheba appeared at the door, tail aloft. She sprang onto the bed and crept slowly over the crumpled sheets. After sniffing a small bloodstain she turned two circles and settled down to wait.

"I need to explain. You-have-to-lis-ten," he was thumping the desk with his fist to emphasise each syllable. The headache had grown worse after dark and the lump in his neck burned like fire. The police officer didn’t answer but turned and called a colleague, “Jim, here a minute will you?”

Alan fingered his neck and a new image crashed into his head. The greys stretched a thin latex sheet over him and attached the corners beneath the table. A soft vibration and hum began as a suffocating vacuum was introduced. His screams were stifled under hot shrink-wrap.

Jim appeared at the desk and eyed him slowly from head to toe. "First things first sir, where are your clothes?"

……………………………

Two hundred and fifty miles above in the upper atmosphere hung a vast flying V. Inside six grey beings were seated in a circle studying a 3D holographic presentation which hovered at their centre. DNA analysis, brainwaves and chemical structure were laid out with mathematical clarity for inspection. Each chart and report bore the title "Alan Henderson."

Thanks to JJ and Thanks to Grace

JJ’s beautiful daughters recently picked me as joint winner of a little guessing game on her blog and I was promised a prize in the mail all the way from Massachusetts. I am not sure I was an entirely worthy winner but JJ is a woman of her word and a parcel duly arrived a mere five days after posting and here is a picture. A Book of Answers, two CDs and an amazing Machine which plays a range of relaxing natural sounds. Thanks for some great prizes JJ.

When I learned that Grace was visiting a friend in a seaside town not too far from where I live we thought, wouldn’t it be fun to meet! You know, put a full character to the name. A few e-mails soon sorted out the arrangements and some text messages on the day ensured we converged on the same spot. Un-seasonal rain failed to dampen conversation over pizza and the obligatory Diet Coke. Thanks for a great afternoon Grace.