I always return to The scene within a short space of its occurrence whether something messed-up happened, or if it was something that seemed to offer more. (failed attempts to live in cities, hyper-paranoiac festival disasters, or that time when someone held my hand for a few seconds). Looking for that Thing, that different Thing, like it was a black box recording. It occurs to me it has something I need.
It always occurs to me after an heavy drinking, and enjoyable, evening. Maybe a false sense of connection to things. But I realise why my apparent stubbornness and refusal to ‘change’ is not going to go away.
“when I was a child is had a fleeting glimpse, out of the corner of my eye. I turned and looked but it had gone”.
I don’t think it’s merely about rare openings to the potential of romance, or a glimpse of a life of brighter colours to this one, aided by drink from the night before. They are just signs that lead to something that has nestled in my unsettled guts for as long as became a socialised being.
But then the night draws in, that space draws in, as the rush hour begins, and the dream-like-ness is washed away.
Whatever it is, it refuses to be rejected as fantasy, whilst it continually remains out of reach, as if my arms can’t stretch far enough, or there is always a pane of glass between me and it.
But the tide is ebbing on the open field of youth. It’s make or break, now. No more resignation to the slow suicide of mundane type.
This blog was written whilst listening to Under the Script Bridge by the Chameleons. It damn well had to be listened to.
John B Ledger 