Get a load of this. This is the right, perhaps wrong, way of remembering what it is that makes the heart pump, gulp, retch and fizzle through ages of wars and money and love and breakdowns. This right way is not simple, not straightforward and certainly not possible to put down on paper. You’ll never find this on a web-site, in the back of a magazine or stuck inside a phone box. The gong rings in the ears and you imagine yourself a different person. Awake, though not in the way you were before. Fields of vision expand and contract as the ideas whirr and the eyelids flop then, by some miracle, stay open again. This is high speed love. Trench warfare between you and what you thought was you. And the end result ought to combine the following: ripped clothing, marshmallows, a flower of some description, a piece of paper with the words ‘no hope, no fear’ written upon them and a pair of tan brogues. A pot of steaming hot tea is optional. You won’t find this written upon glossy, high colour pamphlets stuffed through your door as you sit on your couch and rock back and forth and ask why and all the while the TV is throwing out pointless nonsense designed to nullify your sense of reason. No, you won’t find it on TV either. I have nothing against TV. They make good fires. They don’t, however, make goodness. Books hold up one end of the bed, though the other is supported by a team of mice chanting high pitched slogans. Enjoy the riverside swell, the rubber ducks sent by Vishnu with a message ‘I love you.’ Enjoy the light show of colour bouncing off her perfect eyes. The lens capture of chemicals; memories fixed in perfume and laughter. Push away the sandpaper attitude, follow the heart, tip the messenger. If my car works tomorrow, it will be treated to a wash. My famous uncle says that I am going places. In the swimming pools of sacked nations, small monkeys frolic filled with fermented fruits.
The place to go is Reading. Failing that, steal a shuttle and set a course for Neptune, the music is marvelous there.