Silhouette

The man shielded his eyes from the low sun and scanned his new horizon. Late afternoon and the beach was already deserted. He lay back and pressed a head-shaped hollow in the sand. Behind his closed lids heat dots swam left to right chasing those tiny threads that look like life-forms under a microscope. Travelling light was liberating, credit card, toothbrush, tousled hair.

The kaleidoscope of swirling light made him giddy so he opened his eyes and stared vertically at the deep blue zenith. A silver needle, almost too small to see, grazed the high cobalt in silence. He remembered the noisy jets which dropped from the clouds near his home, by contrast they scored the sky like nails on a chalk board. Several minutes elapsed while he allowed his focus to lengthen to infinity. Thoughts shrank to notions as his mind steadily emptied. He liked this process.

Relaxed and calm, he propped himself up on elbows. The ocean was a flat mirror, blinding in its intensity. He squinted hard and thought he could make out the upper half of a cruise liner, buried partly beyond the earth’s curvature.

Suddenly his focus pulled to the foreground and fixed on a head and shoulders emerging from the water. He reduced his gaze to slits and saw a slim torso with long arms wading slowly from the mercury sea. In the shallows, slender legs were revealed and their stride became easier. Now he sat upright half smiling, half frowning. The huge setting sun made a sharp silhouette of his visitor as she crossed the sand to him, ocean water dripping from long, long hair. Her languid motion brought her smoothly to within a few inches. The man looked up into her shadowy face ringed by sunlight, “Jo?” He ventured…

… she smiled sweetly.

And he cruised on the weekends just to be seen
And they all made fun of him yelling, "…where's Josephine?"Slobberbone - Josephine

Racing in yellow

This was intended to be my farewell post but a middle-of-the-night, soul-searching wrangle drew me to change my mind. My normally right-way-up world has been spinning topsy-turvy. I put mountains of emotion into this effort and it wears me thin. I need to ration my time and make room for matters which are very important to me. I will be posting less frequently and taking breaks for I need to step back a little. I will enjoy each comment as I always have but I cannot commit to replying individually. I have my muse and need time to stretch and flex in private.

Bluesy Blues

Muscle and bone, just a routine miracle in carbon and water
stardust capable of greatness but condemned to obscurity.
Notionally intelligent while screaming insane.
Excuse me while I break my own heart.

Gimme a bitter placebo or slip me a strong panacea.
Just gimme pretend meds to mend my pretend head,
a wasted waster wasting his decades.
Excuse me while I numb my own heart.

Stinging tears screamed and howled away on racing rubber.
Needle reaches vertical and my knee trails the blacktop
leaning hard into a long fast bend.
Excuse me while I smash my own heart.

An ocean evening hot and humid, deep and tight, wet and smooth,
shuddering. Sparkling waves, deliciously soft pressing sand.
Rolling to stare at the cold "maybe" stars.
Excuse me while I stamp on my heart.

Biting the top off a bottle would be so fucking simple.
Calendar, yearbook, milestones and pledges swallowed.
A screeching halt at the precipice edge.
Excuse me while I consider my heart.

"There goes my hero, he’s ordinary…"
Foo Fighters - My Hero

Night/day dream-mare

I am working on something new but it may be a while in gestation. To fill the void here is something from a year ago which many will not have seen. Those that have may notice some modifications.

Sometimes my mind drifts and I think with piercing clarity.

a million people stand in my way
iridium lenses shield against eye contact
a beautiful barrier
minding my own business
incessant conversations in my skull
words I can’t speak
drag a finger along the railings to pick up germs
frigid freezing fridge magnet
i’m not talking to you
reflections in a window resolve into the view beyond
everyone else is needlessly boring
a different journey on new roads
treading water, not waving but drowning
supposedly intelligent actually retarded
a rice pudding with tender skin
what fucking saviour?
hatred fatigue
do you know that Artesian well
walk the wing of a 747 eight miles high
leap from the 48th
main line de-sensitising agents
tea and toast
hell of a holiday
is anyone sitting here?
dry properly between your toes
rotting red road-kill
angelic choir church and steeple
charisma bypass or character transplant
10 million seconds to live, equals -
3 months to die
it is now safe to switch off your computer
3,000
precious people prefer private promises
taking the utmost care
barrel pressed to temple
happy angry sad desperate
rules for archiving and destruction
report unattended baggage
i so badly want to drink an Ocean, so badly
eyes wide, ears flat
take me to your leader dealer
fuck forever
wireless trip wire
portent omen sign harbinger prophecy
alive at least
Bonus Random Thoughts
one spot doesn’t make a rash
a marathon not a sprint
worldwide patent pending
talisman
taliswoman
forever young and drop-dead gorgeous
fighting a fight with maturity
devastatingly dignified and sheer class
intellectual intimacy
The Kick Inside
got to promise not to stop when I say, “when”
living on an island
swim out past the breakers
watch the world die
chainsaw through growth rings
hope I’m old before I die
naked and sticky…
… under protective leather
armour-plated sensitivity
thunderous rock n’ roll
sweet mown grass
searing blue sky
scorching rays
summer madness

Isle of Wight Festival 2006

There are dozens more pictures of how I spent my rock and roll weekend and here they are.

England’s “Woodstock” was a beautiful dream from 1968 to 1970 until a scarcely believable one million hippies took over the Island, forcing action at government level. In 1970 the ‘Isle of Wight Act’ was passed by Parliament to ban all future festivals. The Act was repealed in 2002…

2006 sold out months ago but I came across a single last minute ticket (the vendor knows how grateful I am.) The one hundred and sixty square-mile island is barely separated from the mainland by a narrow strait but has the feel of a bygone era. A crucial local newspaper, scores of cousins and low mileage vintage cars demonstrate the efficiency of water as a boundary.

A note-by-note account of the music would have you yawning and reaching for the remote so I’ll stick to highlights and atmosphere but here’s a quick scan of the 3-day line-up:

The Prodigy
Placebo
Goldfrapp
The Rakes
Morning Runner

Foo Fighters
Primal Scream
Editors
Dirty Pretty Things
The Kooks
The Proclaimers
The Upper Room
Suzanne Vega
747s
The On Offs

Coldplay
Richard Ashcroft
Lou Reed
Maximo Park
Kubb
Procol Harum
Delays
CatHead
The Windows
Skyline Heroes

Thank you to Steve and his daughter for introducing me to island life.

I like it at the front, bouncing, up close and personal but in a giant seething crowd of fifty-five thousand that was impractical and downright fucking dangerous. I held a variety of positions over the weekend, sometimes within twenty yards of the stage at others two hundred yards away. At times the only way from A to B was to get your head down and push people hard to create a path where no gaps exist.

It rains too much in England but I was treated to three hot blue summer days in a row. I borrowed a girly blue hat to shade my sensitive forehead and slapped on SPF thirty-five. Wrap-around Oakleys saved my sore eyes. Late morning there was plenty of grassy meadow to sit on but by 11pm it was ‘sardines’ in a field. Stand in your garden for twelve hours a day and you’ll know how my feet, legs and back feel! Make sure you find a spot with not a speck of shade and choose a cloudless weekend. Yes, physical and emotional exhaustion are very real.

Teenage girls in halter-tops passed around spliffs as thick as your finger and scampered on dirty bare feet. Forty-something guys took off their T-shirts to sport taut white beer bellies. Bronzed fifty plus women bent to reveal seductive lower back tattoos and young boys with beer mugs staggered in the sun, their eyes reduced to unseeing slits. Oh, and there was me in my borrowed blue hat.

Fifty-five thousand souls make a lot of noise, they drop litter ankle-deep and they produce a vast amount of “waste” – please don’t invite me to discuss the toilet arrangements… The whole world and his wife thumbed texts in their mobile phones or shrieked into them, jumping and waving wildly to an unseen friend a hundred yards away. The air was thick with alphabet soup, text messages became constipated in the hot dusty air taking an hour to travel ten paces and thousands of digital cameras recorded every scene for posterity.

If the music failed to move you there were fairground rides three hundred feet tall to scare the pants off you. Another field of stalls sold ridiculous hats, shawls, beads and a myriad of hippie trinkets. Beyond that lay thousand upon thousand tiny tents for the hardy festival campers and after that acres of cars, their windscreens glittering in the dazzling June sun.

Back to the stage - huge beach balls bounced over our heads and imaginative souls held aloft inflatable alligators, waved flags on twelve foot masts and swayed to the summery sounds. Bands I thought might be wild were somewhat restrained and bands I had no expectations for blew me away. The variety was spine-tingling, from angular modern punk to sweeping anthems, from thrashing rock to mellow melodies, it was all here over three days. The sound was huge. This equipment aficionado studied the gigantic towers of PA speakers, the python-thick cabling and the million-knob mixing desks – wow I want one of those!

Procol Harum (Whiter Shade of Pale) were way down the order on day two and I expected nothing. So why did I become so very emotional and choke up completely at their set? Thirty six years ago they played at the final original I.o.W. Festival when I was a teenage schoolboy with my whole life ahead of me. I was yet to make the crazy fucking mistakes and do the reckless things that would forever change the course of my life. The humility and dignity of these men was beautifully understated yet emotionally charged. They will die doing the thing they love and their own mistakes are just part of a rich life. Music has extraordinary power.

Richard Ashcroft stabbed the mic at his bare chest offering his soul to the masses. Wearing his tormented heart on a ragged sleeve he introduced songs of love and death, depression and suicide - including "Bitter Sweet Symphony" and "Lucky Man." The band left the stage leaving him to deliver "The Drugs Don't Work" with just his acoustic guitar. An emotional roller-coaster.

Dirty Pretty Things were as skinny as sharpened pencils, kings of cool in spray-on black denim with backs to the crowd. Swigging sherry from the neck of a bottle at twenty six you know they are approaching the essential age for rock and roll suicide.

Memories of grass hot but damp, cigarette lighters held aloft, searing green lasers that pierce the black night, ten vast video screens so those at the back of the island don’t see the players as ants, throbbing pounding bass that shakes my spleen, picking my way through piles of half eaten burgers and noodles, the setting sun, a death-defying electrician climbing the lighting gantry like a monkey, burning skin, azure skies, green eyes, sentimental fucking emotions, summer memories and still a teenager at forty eight…

Tagged by Patry

I don't like to blow my own trumpet, as a matter of fact I haven't invested in a brass instrument. So these are accurate responses with no fan-fare.

accent:
southern broadcaster neutral.

booze:
fifteen years of alcoholism followed by twelve years of sobriety… and counting.

chore I hate:
grocery shopping at the supermarket. I always seem to be standing just exactly where someone else wants to be. And another thing - no sooner does my critical attention alight on something I like but the store discontinues to stock it.

dogs/cats:
one cat – “Smartie.” He follows my wife like a sheep, catches frogs, lies in wait on the bird-table but mostly ignores me.

essential electronics:
PC, hi-fi, iPod, Camera etc, etc…

favorite perfume/cologne:
tap water and soap several times daily.

gold/silver:
probably neither but when I become a Pirate I will have a gold tooth.

hometown:
Dibden Purlieu, Hampshire, England – on the edge of King Henry VIII’s 140 square mile hunting ground, The New Forest.

insomnia:
generally I sleep like a log and cannot be woken. Occasionally I stay awake all night when thoughts and problems need thinking through.

job title:
some might say lazy-bones! I accepted voluntary redundancy in January 2006. Having no earned income has involved re-thinking my spending habits but I think I can ward off starvation!

kids:
two extremely tall boys in their twenties.

living arrangements:
big-ish house by UK’s miniscule standards. Now the boys have moved on we rattle.

most admired trait:
attention to detail.

number of sexual partners:
too few to brag, just sufficient to understand.

overnight hospital stays:
tonsillectomy at 35 and 45 (they re-grew). Surgery on elbow tendons at 44.

phobia:
flying. Aeroplanes scare the heck out of me and I finally managed my first flight at age 45 to Florida. Only an extremely important destination or appointment lures me aloft.

quote:
"Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself but talent instantly recognizes genius." — Sir Arthur Conan Doyle 1859-1930

religion:
born and raised Roman Catholic but lost faith during teenage years. Now I know the difference between right and wrong, I honour people who care, I respect nature and admire honesty.

siblings:
one sister I love. One brother.

time I usually wake up:
6:30am but seldom rise before 8am. Coffee brings me out of my thick head.

unusual talent:
I can wriggle my ears, twitch my nose and if you really ask nicely, I can make squeaking noises by squeezing my hands together..

vegetable I refuse to eat:
if I ate no vegetables I would die. I am vegetarian.

worst habit:
correcting grammatical errors. If you want a good laugh, watch me throw shoes, remote controls and miscellaneous weaponry at TV presenters to reprimand the buffoons! (Second worst habit – when I am upset I detach the cause like a diseased limb.)

x-rays:
I am not keen for someone to see right through me. A slight aura of mystery is important. Who wants to see my bones anyway?

yummy foods I make:
Positively none, I find food mildly irritating and am yet to locate the kitchen. I long for the day when taking nourishment as tablets and liquid becomes an option.

zodiac sign:
Virgo. Come on people! Surely that’s perfectly obvious?!

Faded Seaside Glamour

I think I belong in the past – or maybe in the future… The present is definitely an awkward kind of in-between stage, which hopefully will end soon. I took a journey into the past to see if I fitted… maybe I need to go further back.

July bakes the sand to scalding and a pier stretches endlessly across green waves to somewhere over a blue horizon past the miniature sails where happiness lies.

Rippled coffee-shop glass reflects the gang back-combing their hair in motorcycle mirrors. Buddy Holly blares out “..well the little things you say and do, make me wanna…” and in the distance polka-dot girls lean on silver-painted railings snapping gum. Territory claims are staked.

A throaty rumble turns their heads. The two-wheeled source slows and threads effortlessly between the ranks of black and chrome. Calmly the tall rider twists a key and silences his steed. Confused glances shift from the dazzling machine to his black leathers and back again. He needs coffee and walks slowly into the shop.

They fall in line to follow through the neat blue chequered tables and slide onto red-topped barstools beside him.
“You up from Bournemouth mate?” Asks one.
“No.” The lone rider smiles.
“Where’d you get that fancy gear?” Eyes swivel up and down his supple tailored leathers. The contrast with their own hard black jackets and coarse jeans is sharp.
“It’s what we wear in the fut… where I come from.” He smiles again. “Cappuccino, please.” He puts a banknote on the counter.
“Talk English and I’ll serve you!” grins a girl with a blond bob, her expression switching to uncertainty as she turns the small crisp bill in her fingers.
“What’s this?” She stares in bewilderment at the unfamiliar note.
“Money? The tall stranger offers meekly. “Make it a black, no sugar…”
“Well I’ll believe you, thousands wouldn’t!” Her grin returns as she pours.

Long pointed shoes tap as Eddie Cochran starts up, “C’mon everybody!”
“I remember this.” Says the stranger.
Now the gang presses closer.
“What do you mean?” Snarls a brute with a livid scar from ear to chin. “It ain’t been on the juke no longer ’n a day. Just out, this is.”
Suspicious looks dart once more to the incongruous vivid yellow sculpture outside. Suddenly it seems a world away from the brutish black iron surrounding it.

This is wrong the tall man thinks. Where are the compassion and bright free spirits? He ignores scarface and looks toward the glittering pier with its candyfloss stall and helter-skelter and empty silver railings. The polka dots have tripped into the café and are watching this funny rivalry from a corner.

“Yer gonna have to explain or we’ll cut yer, you know!” Scarface gives two cohorts hefty claps on the back. “Us seasiders carry blades and we use ‘em. You don’t belong here country boy.” His mates unzip their jackets menacingly.

“Could always race him, I suppose.” Suggests a thug with missing fingers. “Ton-up on the beach road, pretty boy?”

“I’ll blow him off the road.” Scarface snorts.

“No I don’t think you will...” The tall man gently replies.

-------------------
A girl stands alone by the pier railings as if waiting for someone. How had he missed her before? As he approaches she turns to face him and her eyes lock on his. They stand a foot apart looking and wondering… Is it, could it be?

Scarface slings a stiff leg over his oily Triumph. One sharp kick, the big twin rattles into life and blue smoke jets from the tailpipe.
“Chicken are yer?” He shouts. “Wanna bring yer friend for ballast…”

Now the tall man is back at his sleek machine. “Hold tightly.” He whispers over his shoulder as she sits behind him. “I mean tighter than tight.” He feels her arms grip his waist like a vice. Snapping down his black visor he thumbs the starter, revs and warms the bike. The gang shuffles back at the unfamiliar howl, exchanging bewildered glances.

The thug holds a red handkerchief high above his head.

“Ready?” Screams scarface.

“Ready!” Nods the stranger. And over his shoulder again, “Tight OK…tight” She squeezes his arm.

“Go!”

-------------------

The sun lowered in the western sky as he lay on the sand, kicked off his hot boots and looked out over the once hopeful sea. The Yamaha clicked as it cooled. She had held on as he had asked but now she had faded from his reality. Probably it would always be like this. Racing brought out the hope and the possibility. Strangely he had a faint taste of coffee in his mouth this time.