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"I
am haunted by no phantoms. It is rather that the ashes I stir up contain the
crystallization that hold the image (reduced or synthetic) of the living and
impure beings that they constituted before the intervention of the fire. If
life has a meaning, this image (from the beyond?) has perhaps some significance.
That is what I should like to know. And it is why I write."
...You've shown me how vast the world is. I never suspected it. You have opened my eyes. You know, I think about all sorts of things here. You have never laughed at me. Art is not a paradox, nor is it a witticism or a more or less amusing fashion. It is not a pose. It is a profound, obscure reality, a need that must be satisfied, like hunger, like love, and yet it is very difficult to satisfy. It is a phenomenon as complex as life itself, and in order to live one must toil and love and suffer.
- Blaise Cendrars
Come and sit with me.
Let me talk to you.
I finished reading Nina Rootes' translation of Dan Yack. It's as close a thing to perfection as I know. I looked on in wonder - occasionally wept with laughter.
I broke my arm two weeks ago. I slipped on a ramp outside my office and broke the left humerus in half at the middle. My arm flapped around crazily. It was quite a sight. I went green.
The arm is interesting now; A sling, stained, the tan, the paler sun motif left on the back of my hand by the henna tattoo I acquired before Glastonbury, the massive black and ochre bruises, the brace with the little soldier's star molded into the shoulder. They gave me Co-Dydramol.
The Exile has moved, and Gary Brecher gave a radio interview. He is at the top of the game.
I am cold now. The fire is on. It might as well be winter. I feel cold after I take Warfarin. I feel cold after reading Dan Yack (the shack on the island, the ice floes, the crumbling and capsizing bergs, the ocean spray which freezes mid-blast on the cables with a hiss and crackle). Dan went to the Somme, as Blaise. And Blaise went to Champagne afterwards and got his right arm blown to bits. He held a gun to the surgeon's head at the field hospital, as a incentive to save his life, and they amputated the arm. Champagne was one long party...
Don't let it worry you. It all makes sense really.
Ah well...
This is the world. By that I mean right here. This actual moment. I'll drink and smoke and take the pills, and come back. I need these black scratches now. And I have all the time I need.
A long time indeed.
Rise up Old Slasher, and play out your part...
The old strains play. England falls away. I sit like a statue made of mixed media. Skills and memories. Friendships and family. Possessions and allegiances. A set of commitments...reference points...
One watches them on the seashore, all the people, and there is something pathetic, almost wistful in them, as if they wished their lives did not add up to this scaly nullity of possession, but as if they could not escape. It is a dragon that has devoured us all: these obscene, scaly houses, this insatiable struggle and desire to possess, to possess always and in spite of everything, this need to be an owner, lest one be owned. It is too hideous and nauseating. Owners and owned, they are like the two sides of a ghastly disease. One feels a sort of madness come over one, as if the world had become hell. But it is only superimposed: it is only a temporary disease. It can be cleaned away.
Open the Pod Bay doors Hal.
There was there. The chair outside the marquee where I looked down the hill. You could throw a filter and hit the bar...a small acrylic duster would have made the food wagon, or the shoulder pad from my brace. Nuts were on the job again. Even the coffee was outstanding.
She was not there. I guessed she wouldn't be, and I didn't look for her.
That was that.
But sometimes I still think about her.
She's real.
So I'm sitting there, wasted. The sun is shining and I have finished my shifts. There is a bloke sitting nearby I am liking. Never seen him before, not to remember, even though he's clearly been around for many, many years. We have a mutual friend - Terry - but I don't know this bloke's name, and I never find out.
The first time I saw him was at the party the Earlies threw on Saturday night. It was a spontaneous affair. We were camped outside the fence and couldn't get in - all 400 of us. Vehicle Gates were open of course, but, as someone said; 'The Ped Gates need to be running - and we're running the Ped Gates.'
So there was fire, a big circle, and it got heavy.
I remember passing him a joint. I have a feeling it wasn't the first time I had seen him. I had already noted the general tenor. He seemed pure festival material; country type, heavy tan, used to manual work, years of abandon. I knew I could never be like him - though the thought never coalesced, as such, in my mind.
Some time later I left the circle to take a piss, walking past the showers on the way. They were communal - women on the left and men on the right - handwritten cardboard signs hanging over the respective entrances signifying which was which. Between the two, a narrow corridor, leading nowhere it seemed, but both tents were part of the same structure. There was an aluminium beam over the gap.
Just as I'm walking by I hear a voice calling me in a stage whisper. It's the
bloke. I can just make him out waving me over, crouching in a corner by the
hog roast tent, he has a piece of cardboard on the ground and a big pen in his
hand. He points to the signs over the entrances...
"Men."
"Women."
Here he points to the gap between the tents and holds up the sign so I can see
the writing...
"Terry!"
We both screamed with laughter. I was already having trouble walking, and I
waved him away and staggered on to the toilets, laughing hysterically. I was
still laughing on my way back, where he was putting the finishing touches to
the sign. When I saw his smile at me through the gloom I shrieked again and
walked on, out of control.
So I'm sitting there, and this guy is close by, and he is plainly stoned and drunk, bibulous - probably worse than me. It's the classic booze and blow scenario all round, again. I think this time it had been running for me since the day before. I can't remember what time it was, even if it was morning or afternoon: But it was day time.
A guy caught my eye, walking towards me, I remembered him from Womad in '06; he was supervisor on the shift after mine. I handed over to him a few times. He had raved about Leeds, thought it was the best, underrated, etc.
He was square-jawed and stocky - healthy looking. Certainly not a smoker. Intelligent, caring, he wore on his face always a look of concern. Occasionally he rippled with what looked like a deep feeling of regret, which you could only see up close. You thought he might become a priest. He would be perfect. Women would go insane. He asked me how it was going.
"Well. I have to say I'm slightly toasted at the moment..."
"When did you get here?"
"Saturday. I finished my last shift yesterday. I've been on a bit of a
bender since then. I've had about...sixteen hours of smoking, with the booze
providing a steady baseline."
I heard a ragged voice say 'Snap!' beside me. It was the bloke. We
started laughing.
I blathered on in a drunken way and eventually asked the would-be priest...
"So, how's it going for you?"
The bloke next to me shrieked at this. I cracked up again.
"I see you're both pretty much out of the frame at the moment. You even
look like each other," the priest said, laughing himself, "Maybe talk
to you another time."
"Yeah," I said, gripping my knee and trying not to cough, "this
guy doesn't help."
"You both look wasted."
"Yes," I gasped for breath, "We go to work in half an hour!"
The would-be priest seemed suddenly shocked, his face clouded over...
"You're going to work...?"
I calmed down. A young woman with braided blonde hair piped up nearby.
"Guys..." she said reprovingly, but I caught a hint of something
else, maybe it was the blow.
"No...I'm kidding...I finished my last shift on Monday, that was...yesterday,
I think..."
He left, and after only a moment me and the bloke had lost it again. I couldn't
stand it, it was getting too intense, perhaps too close, and I berated him for
making me laugh and got up to leave.
"What's this...," he said staring at me, his eyes having focal problems,
"...the Giggle Police?"
On a later occasion he told me about the 'tour' of the site he had given two
young women, preppy types high up in the organisation. One of them wanted class-A's...and
he took them to the Stone Circle and cut a deal with a Scouser. She thought
she had been ripped for a while, but half-an-hour or so later she was off her
tits. He had to get her and her mate back across the site. He smiled in his
easy way as he finished the story...
"It was hilarious."
Give me five more years.
And here I am. Hermetically sealed, blooded bodies and wailing women on the silent TV behind me, the flat screen in front, the Thirties fan rocks and clatters a little on its roll. I must have the fan on. It is very important.
Deckard.
I want the night to go on. To play on the edge of The Fall. You are Man's man now. Play their game during the day, but play it out of focus, to shake it off the more readily. Here it is different.
It slipped away
from me again. The meaning. What happened? I don't know. I took some notes.
I can't face them. Surely it was another failure.
Smiling faces outside. Chefs and a giant chicken. Part of a dance performance at the gallery. Smiling faces, as I say, all round.
I tried to smile earlier, but it cracked, like a wince. I don't see the joke anymore. Goddess help me, I'm flat lining again. I can't cope with this. In the aftershock the faces round the fire on the backdrop of deep blue and black cloudscape and ocean waves of artificial light and campfires - well, that image means nothing, because I meant nothing to every soul there. Where I was, someone else could easily have sat, and with no difference, only perhaps it might have been better.
A woman just walked in. Jeans and a black leather jacket. Heavy round breasts under a white woolen top. A brunette. She paces slowly around the walls, looking at the patchwork of photos by homeless people. Her son comes through from the café - and hops on the stone floor. The husband enters. He is handsome, thin, with a look of concern and confusion, and carries a near empty bottle of Pellegrino. They join the crowd outside to watch the second performance. Clapping. The sky is brooding. It may rain on the performers, including the chicken. The weather was good for Glastonbury. I couldn't have asked for more. I came back alive - but empty to the core. I'm tired now. I've had enough. I don't want to see anyone. I don't want to talk to anyone. I want to retreat behind my dark-ringed eyes and watch myself run out of thoughts. I would be relieved if no one ever spoke to me again.
And Goddess help me, a heavy session last night. It got messy. It could have been worse. It could so easily have been worse. Just normal people - well, no, rogues really, whooping the sauce down their gregories and sucking on smokes. Talk of a nine bar, infra-red cameras, well known criminals, forging prescriptions and tits versus legs.
So-so.
Back in the roost. The white screen of despair. But hark! An angel sings...
In milky silky water
We swim further and further
We dive down... We dive down
The last blast then. Everything you can imagine is real, Picasso said, and I can just scratch enough dirt away to see the flashing axe-blade, made of mother's milk with filigreed black runes.
Hearing that rum went well with peppermint tea, I headed for the Tiny Tea Tent. I sat down next to two women, cracked open my flask of Old Pulteney and poured a healthy dose in the cup. I got out a small paper to roll a micro-joint with the skunk I had acquired ridiculously cheaply. The program was out. I really did need to check something. It was Thursday.
One woman left; the other I talked to.
She worked in medicine and wrote for a feminist magazine. She had children and had toured with a Salsa group years ago. She wore a low-cut top and had good breasts. Her chest was brown from years of sun, but not too brown. Her hair was short - rusty deep red, like dragons blood. Her teeth were in good nick. There had been some work. It was excellently done.
After a while...
"Are you single?"
"Yes."
"Have you ever had a relationship?"
"No."
"Are you a virgin?"
I paused here, and looked to one side and then back at her with a sad and nervous
smile.
"I would rather not say."
I made it sound like a question.
She looked down.
"I'm sorry. No. Of course not. I shouldn't have asked that. Sorry."
"It's OK."
Pause.
"But if you were a virgin...women would find that interesting."
Pause.
"Why do you think you've never been with someone?"
"I don't know. I've...speculated...for a long time. I've had all
sorts of theories."
"Like?"
"I used to think that I was unattractive to women. I still think that really."
She sat back a little in her chair and looked me up and down...
"Mmmm, I don't think so, I think you would be OK..."
We swapped numbers. She didn't smoke, but was eager to get hold of some cakes or truffles. I was swimming in blow by this stage and offered to help her out. We exchanged a few texts over the next 48 hours and there it ended forever.
So-so.
And on, as the blackness calls, and another dream of being on site.
I am a
brother to dragons, and a companion to owls.
- Job 30:29
No dragons here. No owls probably, although I heard them once, and I saw the dragon in my mind long ago; a black-hooded man-form as shadow on a stone bridge. No: It's tight and bare in the crystal of cultural convention, and I can only see grey skies through the paste. In this light you cannot get contrast. Words again fall flat. They fall as flat as the days and nights, because the dreams seem dry, and the dragon flew west long ago.
Glastonbury in less than three weeks. I expect it to be rough, but I feel pretty good now; physically confident. We have a small party on the Saturday night for the Earlies, and a bigger party on Tuesday, when my work should be finished. Then I'll have six days to fill the SD cards with photos. Six days, hopefully, of transcendental tent episodes, warm cider, fresh salads and square pies. I'll try to see some bands.
So I'm down there for...what - ten days? And I hope the weather isn't bad again. I really do hope that.
I've been sitting here looking at this screen with blurred vision. Eleven scratchy lines of nothing. But there is nothing. The cards over and over, the boards again, the bottle and the smoke.
Nothing. At night I call for the dragon. I call for its help. My mind dances in the dark on the tip of a dagger. Twenty years ago it was war, then it was women, now I grab for everything and anything because every single thing morphs to a nothing. I play the games over and over, but even when I win I lose. It isn't right. Winning feels like cheating. Something tells you that the heroes' feast is wax root on the other plane where your double dines. The women never seem real, hard as you try, and the money is old chocolate buttons and foreign change...and someone else lives in the big house, a dry man in misery. You are in the dark dreaming of the light: One day this; one day that; and when you die you may meet Hunter Thompson in prison on the other side and make him laugh at a joke of how fat you are going. To make the Doctor laugh would be something, but you know in this life only what they tell you: that now he is a memory that cannot change; his day is done. How, in a way, I envy him such knowledge.
Another day looking after the gallery, long gone into yesterday. A day off tomorrow, which is to say, today. It's nearly two, and I feel I want a solid wall, like the flat side of an axe blade. I feel I can breathe life into the old dragon, make it take a few steps further. If I can make a wall, a wall of words, that is, then I could sleep easy: Get the stains off the homepage; the dead memories. Reorientate myself, reengineer the enjin, reforge the blade.
Not so easy, as the day unfolds and night casts its hand over me again. Just more words to momentarily calm the alarum and hoo-ha for the wired morning after the espresso and the cigarette and the boot-up into the daily charge. But it's only 19:00 as I type this. Five hours at the forge to get old muscles going, to get the blood moving.
I see yellow from the duster, yellow from the light dashed highlight around this line of text.
Times. There was a time of me as a boy in Camac Road. That time has gone. I remember sliding doors, falling down the iron stairs, the outside toilet and the German Shepherd who chased a fly out the window. I can see the sea of maggots in the bin and my mum bathing me in the kitchen sink. I remember the old man in the basement who made me a sausage sandwich, dents in the bread where he had pressed his thumbs, and a boy swimming in The Dip after rain, and the girl with curly hair who jumped me to the ground at Archdeacon and kissed me on the lips.
And the last day, when my mother drove us away.
Then the estate. Butts Farm. Seven years. No, more like nine years. Nine years of mostly hell - until the end, when I made it to the tertiary college to recover my failed education - and my world opened up.
Work, and then Uni. And freedom. A life I will carry with me to the grave. The more invisible they are, that band, those times, the stronger they grow in my heart. One day I may try to put it down again, and make more than a pothook.
Then recovery, work, uni again and more work.
So many times.
No owls, but the parakeets chirrup behind me on the riverside. A moment ago I had my head out of the window to smoke...and a drop of rain hit my face. Heavy rain tonight, they say, and storms. I hope so. Sleep tonight, but not in her arms. When I was the dragon, I could sleep with anyone.
Blow on the coals. Move your hand over the embers. Watch the ash riffle and purl. Watch the time flow away from you. In fact, watch the universe die.
Geese now, calling out, and flecks of rain at the edge of the storm.
A sunlit stream leading down to the beach. I walked the sandy channel and spoke in my mind for the first time.
The airing cupboard where I used to hide, invisible, silent.
A bridge over the road in the west. I sat there after I had seen her, after the police and security had thrown me out. I was blown away and penniless, waiting for my parents.
It's dark here. Talk to me if you want.
...
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