4
Posted: March 28th, 2006, 9:34 am
Writing feels so futile right now. What, with the twenty-twelve prophesies and personal premonitions, realisations and insights, could be the point? I mean, I could be cleaning the house or drinking smooth ale at the Never Say Die. I could be marking work and completing half-term reports. I could be in Yorkshire, travelling the ancient route from the Addingham Moor Doubler Stones to the Twelve Apostles rock formation, being bathed in the invisible flow of vivifying earth forces, but instead I’m here, neglecting my routine duties in order to attempt to capture my own psychedelic experiences in this symbolic form known to me only as Times New Roman.
My foremost problem is that I don’t know where to start. I could begin at my thirtieth birthday, when I realised the profundity inherent in the timeless nursery rhyme which espoused that life is but a dream. I could go slightly further back to the first time I met my own personal magus.
Yes, I could start there.
I could go back to my beginnings at university or my first travels abroad. I could start at my first love-longing relationship or my first crush, my very first heartache or my prime angst. I could begin by telling you of my history or heritage, but nay, I will begin with Jane.
She approached me.
“Heya cowboy,” she had a sexy voice.
There are no cowboys here.
“Suppose you could roll me one of those?”
I looked up.
“I suppose I could,” I grinned.
She was stunning.
Tall and slim, flawless face, a bit bouffant betty on top and light on the mammeries but stunning regardless.
Cheeky grin smirking sanguinely,
sun bouncing from her Victorian complexion,
crooning down at me from above, she looked through me,
and saw what she’d found.
I took her out at her request and she enticed me, coming on too slow, she cooled on me and pushed away and I clawed back desperately, pushing her away in turn.
I endeavoured to forget her, while she forgot me.
We went on with life.
To be continued...
My foremost problem is that I don’t know where to start. I could begin at my thirtieth birthday, when I realised the profundity inherent in the timeless nursery rhyme which espoused that life is but a dream. I could go slightly further back to the first time I met my own personal magus.
Yes, I could start there.
I could go back to my beginnings at university or my first travels abroad. I could start at my first love-longing relationship or my first crush, my very first heartache or my prime angst. I could begin by telling you of my history or heritage, but nay, I will begin with Jane.
She approached me.
“Heya cowboy,” she had a sexy voice.
There are no cowboys here.
“Suppose you could roll me one of those?”
I looked up.
“I suppose I could,” I grinned.
She was stunning.
Tall and slim, flawless face, a bit bouffant betty on top and light on the mammeries but stunning regardless.
Cheeky grin smirking sanguinely,
sun bouncing from her Victorian complexion,
crooning down at me from above, she looked through me,
and saw what she’d found.
I took her out at her request and she enticed me, coming on too slow, she cooled on me and pushed away and I clawed back desperately, pushing her away in turn.
I endeavoured to forget her, while she forgot me.
We went on with life.
To be continued...