13-4-2022: Day 307
The face of the man in the moon was turning in a hallucinatory twist into the face of Guinness Book of Records breaking, paedophile pervert prince, the late Jimmy Savile.
And gazing into Savile’s dead, soulless, reptilian eyes – I could feel the dwarfing gravitational pull of the moon drawing the pervasive paranoia from every pore of my being. I had just been sucker punched by three traumatic hours of scrap-heap documentary footage of the media manufactured monster from the darkest mine pit of the Island’s subconscious.
After the evening schooling in kiddie fiddling corruption penetrating every orifice of modern state power – from the Crown to the Courts to the Cabinet – I figured it was time to light a candle in the darkness.
A candle in the long dark shadows, of the Jim who tried to fiddle his karma bank but instead fixed his own one-way-ticket, to ride on Satan’s pecker in the eternal coal mined fire pit of Hell.
15-4-2022: Day 309
Perched on the edge of the green grass Valley of Wonder, far from the pressure cooker of modern urban living, I was soaking up nature’s healing vibrations at the gateway to the Sussex Downs. I was toying with the queasy notion of why the religious mafia call it a ‘Good’ Friday, when for the big man it was as ‘Bad’ Friday as could be imagined. As ‘Bad’ as inviting serial killing Jason round to a sedate dinner party on Friday 13th. Like the holy incarnate dude ever wants to see a cross again!
On this Easter weekend, watching two yellow butterflies dance round the random pockets of whispering gorse bushes lining the green Valley of Life – I was left thinking of how the one true church, true temple and true mosque is seeded, worshipped, and evolves in the soul of the beholder. And looking skywards into the heavens, marvel at the cloud busting action in the blue reaches that go on forever.
17-4-2022: Day 311
The scene unfolded in slow-motion, as the clock ticked past midnight, on the full ‘pink’ moon night lifted straight out of Nick Drake’s colourful imagination locker. I was with a brother from another mother, on the lash, carrying take-out beer from the pub back to the lair, and the moon was beaming bright, the shadows lingering across the traffic-free road. The calm was broken in a flash, as the bottle fell to the pavement, smashing into smithereens, as we regretfully watched the beer flow into the gutter.
I was lost in the drunken moment, in a flashback to the Summer of Lockdown 2020, when the 20:20 vision was in fruitful abundance. I came back in the mid-afternoon searing heat to find a thick glass measuring jug had exploded miraculously in the kid’s playroom. Exploded into a thousand tiny pieces of glass shrapnel, spread across the shaggy rug, into every dark corner of the room.
Peering up into the full-moon, I was reminded of this surreal X-files happening, left scratching my head in a mixture of terror, disbelief and wonder at the strange phenomenon gracing my world.