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Nov. 25th, 2012|11:02 pm |
biju Anglijā. My 40+year old friends dispersed and active - first Liverpool to visit one sleeping on the floor of a teachers' room of a school set for demolition - weeds in the yard, a chemistry lab with missing piping a makeshift kitchen. Going through a divorce, with two women tugging at his heart. Lovers' shoes on the damp carpet.
Together, we go to Bolton to see another old friend - in his last month of life - stomach fed by pipe, body immobile - but his mind clear - his eye tearful as he looks at his two-and-a-half year old son. He has to fight for every word "You know I feel quite positive about life which is fucking ridiculous when you think about it." We all laugh, but I don't say anything about death - I leave it to him. We orbit it, but he sees its surface. For all my thinking and I-fancy-I-know-it wisdom, I know fuck all about it.
Off to Oxford - my mate Gavin finally free of crippling depression - the oldest student there studying politics, philosophy and economics in the grand old halls. Fancy ourselves as two good old Norfolk boys - and he confirms my nauseous suspicion of seeing the establishment coalesce from the priviliged elite young - they are the number 2s and if you are us you know them when you spot them. I would feel murderous, but he - he is vibrantly alive - and IN the moment - splaying instinctive balls like Gascoigne in his pomp.
And then further on to the smoke, and/but on transport I read about the Captain whose heart had a beef with the world - and the way the author wrote about this song means I will stick it here - Doctor Dark with an alien wind. The truth is how the animals sound.
Hooves making sparks in the dark. |
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