10-3-2022: Day 273
The tunes were flowing with the late-night gin and juice, as I threw some shapes in the shadows. One-part Happy Monday’s Bez, one-part Stepping Razor Monkey. The night clocked midnight, and the luminous crescent moon slipped behind the little fluffy clouds.
For a long thirteen years, not so much as a footstep on the dancefloor. Now fitter, happier, more productive – I was deep trance dancing before my shadow reflection.
I & I. Lost in time and space. Gazing into the galaxy of the glass mirrored playroom door. Thinking of disco glitter balls.
I was deep in thought. On a cryptic poser – from a brother from the healing voices movement – with two keen eyes for Buddhist mysticism.
He had stirred the frontal lobes of my imagination, with the hidden prophecy of the lost land of Shambala. And, as Leftfield’s ‘Dusted’ pumped through the tinny headphones, the world for a moment lost all serious meaning and gravity.
12-3-2022: Day 275
I was reeling in the arse crack of midday, from the gin and juice goldfish bowls necked from the midnight hour till the butt crack of the false dawn. It was a case of different strokes, different clanships, different scenes – in a gorgeous family gaff in the affluent white stock suburbs of Woking.
Here, the streets smile with the rising sun, the neighbourhood is blessed with loving community vibrations, and the morning bells ring out with golden prospect for the busy earners.
And I found myself wandering the gold paved streets – a rejected, alcoholic, homeless tramp.
Hours earlier, I had been rudely awoken by the resident pussy cat, with stunning eyes like blue saucers. She was smiling coyly from the windowsill, as I reflected in a boozy fug on the hidden iceberg of our collective family trauma, lost in the ocean waves from last night’s heavy drinking session.
And, hauling my sorry arse from the bed, I pranged-out to the slow beat lyrical lament of ‘Eazy’ from The Game.
13-3-2022: Day 276
The rusty lock on the wooden gate at the end of the postage stamp garden was stiff and in need of lubricant. It was a rigid metal alloy bolt hewn by men, sold by men, fitted by men, from men somewhere on this planet floating in the reaches of time and space.
As I pulled the rusty stiff lock open, to collect the recycling bin from the crumbling garages beyond the gate, I noticed a cobweb shimmering in the morning dew. Three little birds were tweeting from the wooden picket fence divide recently collapsed in the storm.
The cobweb was glinting in the silver sunlight, above the hole in the ground where I planned to plant my white rose bush on my Full Moon birthday.
I immediately referenced a story shared by some wise sage, of the prophet Muhammad hiding in a cave, on the run from would-be assassins who on discovering a cobweb spun across the entrance left with their tails between their legs. And, gazing at the bulbous spider in the middle, I stole a choice moment of deep mirrored reflection and quantum sized solace.