Time for some automatic writing... The aim is to channel, find a voice, a consciousness that wishes to communicate, clear my mind, let that consciousness move my fingers over my keyboard and do the typing. I've had a couple of goes before - this is an interesting genre of literature, because it requires so little creative thinking; just empty the mind, then afterwards do some light editing for clarity and style, but that's it.
This endeavour is fuelled by Super Strong BRNX (12% abv) beer, which I've tried once before - a beer that indeed has voodoo qualities ("Street - the Embalmer"). So - one sip, wait for it to take hold, and let's go...
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{ A wooden gate, a field, an English landscape, white clouds in a summer sky. A market town on the horizon, church steeple. Pastoral, peaceful. Smell of cow dung, and then the interior of a barn, rough walls painted white, oak beams supporting a roof. Cool inside. West Country accent. Thirty. 1930? 1830? The latter, definitely - no signs of electricity, railways, mass production... A feeling of the year reaching its fecund zenith, a shudder at the thought that another summer will soon be over, another winter on its way, work to be done - a harvest to be gathered in, a daughter to be married. Wood to be gathered. An axe to be sharpened! Much work. Never-ending work - but much more pleasant to be working in summer, on days like this ('loik this'). To market, to sell, to buy, to gossip. Cider at the inn. A new cap - need a new cap; wife can no longer sew this one into something respectable. A new cap.
{ Duties - there are always duties, muscles ache, but that shows they're working. Sunday soon - the Lord's day of rest, church, hymns and gossip - wife likes gossip - look at this ear of wheat - looks healthy at first sight - but peel away the chaff, the grain has this redness to it... does this matter? Is the whole field like this? There, there. Church on Sunday. Pray for the harvest. My shirt - smells. Sweat smells like piss, doesn't it? Could do with another shirt; a good harvest - new cap, new shirt... Tidings from London; we are blessed with a good king. We have peace. My sons won't be going off to any wars. I am thankful for good neighbours, too. No troubles. We like to laugh. But they did lose a child last winter to diphtheria.
{ You hear me Michael? If you can sense my joy of living - you're right. A loaf of bread, some freshly churned butter, a wheel of old cheese, some pickled onions from a jar in the cellar, a large mug of ale at the end of day's work; a chat with my wife about the day's happenings, little things we saw - yes, Michael, you know I have a happy life. Wasn't always thus - but I don't need to share my past troubles with anyone - now that I feel I have your attention - it's the goods things of life that I want to tell you about.
{ The sun that shines over my ripening field of wheat, it shines over you Michael. You're older than me but I'm older than you. Does age turn to wisdom? It's that feeling that you are aware of as your third pint settles in, and you feel you've understood everything - but that feeling passes as the fifth pint is pulled. We joke, we laugh - yet I have been blessed by God with the family, friends, neighbours that I have? I could not have wished for more. The weather could have been better - more sunny days like today. But then, had there been more sunny days like today, I wouldn't have learned to appreciate them."
[BOOMF! Sudden change of time and place - from Gloucestershire in 1830 to Ohio in 1946]
A warehouse stacked high with spare parts for trucks. Smell of engine lubricant.
{ Hell what you doing? Who are you? Don't like my dirty overalls? Hey - I'm not doing this because I like doing this. I just need the money, you know? Had some bad times, so leave me be. Trying to settle down. Just like the judge said. Get a job, do it, keep out of trouble. I'm trying to do this. Who are you? Ah, OK. Remember this - I'm back from the Pacific War. Two weeks in the hold of a troopship - who wouldn't go a bit crazy once on shore?
{ Leave the judging to the judges. I did what I did, OK? It happened. Paid the price. I'm on the way back to being a valued member of the community. Swear it won't ever happen again. Promise. Don't like my boss, he don't like me - but we can get over that. He's got targets to meet - and I need to keep out of trouble for a while and build me up some capital. But don't you cross me, 'cause I get angry. I get angry when I think about Palau. Why were we even there? I see these guys, in their suits and Fedoras and their '46 Cadillacs and Lincolns - were they even there? And now they judge me? It's easy for a man to get angry.
{ That's why I love my motorcycle. I sit astride it. Turn the key, kick the starter, drop the clutch - and I'm in another world - slicing through air - with not a thought to trouble me. Big grin. Fuck 'em all. Let it rip. Ride up to the tavern, where the neon light says 'Schlitz'. Meet my old buddies. They're not driving '46 Packards. They're on motorcycles. Another beer? Won't be saying no, Michael.
{ Fucken' sheriff. We were landing on the beaches, this asshole was writing out speeding tickets in Galatea, Ohio. Back to work on Monday, then. Cardboard boxes, that's my new life. Racks and racks of them, piled high. Hell, I can cope with that. Find them, tick them off on the clipboard, make sure it's the right part (don't want piston rings for a Mack mixed up with one for a Kenworth). Spent a lot of time fixing airplane engines for the Marines in the Pacific, keeping our F4Us flying - I know what I'm talking about. Anyone know more about carburettors than me? Could do with another beer, Michael, another ice-cold beer. Any chance of another fucken' beer?" }
No way guy, I'm out of here. First one was easier on my mind.
This time last year:
New phone, new laptop, Part II
This time two years ago:
Two images from my early childhood
This time three years ago:
How PKP PLK's planners should treat pedestrian station users.
This time four years ago:
Foreign exchange: don't get diddled!
[for the saps who pay £250 for €200 at the airport]
This time six years ago:
Defining my Sublime Aesthetic
Porth Ceiriad on the Llyn Peninsula
This time ten years ago:
Jeziorki sunset, late July
This time 11 years ago:
Jeziorki sunset, after the storm
This time 14 years ago:
Rural suburbias - the ideal place to live?
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