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Musings

June 6, 2015

I’ve not done this before, not publically anyway. I have no idea at all what I’m going to write, no plan, no strategy. I’m just going to let my fingers do their thing and let my mind free. As far as possible I’m going to stop thinking and switch-off. I’m not going to edit, the only thing I’ll do is a quick spell check to make sure at least some of his readable! This could be a stream of consciousness, a chain of disconnected words, or it could be a poem or a story. Or maybe nothing will happen whatsoever. In that case I’ll spare you the pain and won’t even paste. So, it’s Friday night, I’m sober and I’m sitting in my study. I think there’s pale light coming in through the window, and there are pictures on the wall. Here we go…

Gubbins, funny words, like a brindle flame, like a little dog with a wet nose and brown eyes. Not like a salamander, one they pour brandy over and drink, hoping the poison in the skin will cause their minds to trip, bend and send strangely discursive thoughts into the vacuum of common sense. A chaffinch, a little bird stands on a perch and gazes hopefully at the fields that tug at the sky. There is singing in the trees and the trees themselves sway to an ancient rhythm of breeze and cloud. We’re told not to stab the man in the toga, he has laurel leaves bound about his head. Let’s leave him alone to rock himself to sleep when he is an old man. He won’t hurt us, he just stands and watches because this used to be his land. No dagger, no harmful thoughts, no pitch and rushes for his early gleaming death. And so the soap and water, we wash the beggar’s hands – brown cloth, rough cloth, barefoot and forlorn. A shilling, a penny, a piece of pig-iron for his be; a thing of straw and lice that crawl and wonder like broken stars. A kindness, a willow, a straddling wanderer with a staff. He crosses a river and bends away from the marsh. Hi heart beats fast, his breath a lithe thing. A canopy of trees, a meadow of flowers. A garland to bind a ritual, a ritual to signify a life. Cold hands, rare duty, a fish flaps on a silver plate. A woman tries on a false smile and finds it does not fit. She bends her knees creaking, flour in her hair. She want to die because she is sad. A sling, a bow, a rainbow in the pale sky. A wolf pads silently in the grove. He sniffs and lays down, ears pricking, teeth not yet bared. A glimmer, of sunshine, a ripple in a pond, a boy stands, a cloak around his shoulders, his hair dark and curly. “Brigand” he says. “I am Galass.” There is no enemy, only friends. Welcome hands, a ring on a finger, a cup. A jingle, a bracelet of silver. A soft, smooth wrist, a nod. There’s a computer on fire but they don’t know what computers are. A salvage, a memory, a guide, a bear, green grass, pigeon. Music. An octopus stand sentinel, yellow eyes, blue. Waves his arms and smiles a greeting to the king of coral. A slamming door, a chisel in rock. Someone comes in, blue clothes, chubby cheeks. Amazement, wonder, father to a giraffe. Estate, a red car on a lonely road. A bird in a tree.

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