Thursday, September 22, 2011

Near the Knuckle now

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Well the yak (who I've named Steve) is really wearing my arse out now, but we're just passing the Knuckle.

It's this big black volcanic glass rock that's off to one side of the road (a mile off, and still fucking huge) glinting in the evening slanting sunshine.

It's called the Knuckle (Shlortsi in the local language, so Fusel tells me) because it looks like this big carpometacarpal joint pushed up out of the stony ground round there. Like a giant is trying to punch her way out of the geology.

Nothing grows there (and you have to say that with a mystery whisper) because, hey! it's fucking rock, there's no soil there. (Fusel glowers at this and sucks on his pipe, which I think is full of ketamine, because he's that fucked up with his big-ass moustache).

I'm a happy smiling tourist with a big camera, a hunk of technology I can't use, even here - there's a super-secret rocket base behind the Knuckle, and occasionally you see the contrail of an X-plane full of volunteer about to explode.

Still and all, I can hear the whiny call of plain warblers arguing about politics in the reeds of a stagnant pond (that smells of diesel) just a couple of close Greeks away.

Very.

Just nipped back to get my keys

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Just nipped back to get my keys
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Before off on the holiday (long tome coming, short time going).

Anyway, before I bugger off. I found this from Bertrand Russell:

Fear of public opinion, like every other form of fear, is oppressive and stunts growth. It is difficult to achieve any kind of greatness while a fear of this kind remains strong, and it is impossible to acquire that freedom of spirit in which true happiness consists, for it is essential to happiness that our way of living should spring from our own deep impulses and not from the accidental tastes and desires of those who happen to be our neighbours, or even our relations

That's good.

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Title: Cometary lag festival Body:

Where the bombs in my head go off, one after the other,

And spouting neurone fireworks (touch blue paper and retire to a Spanish villa dotage where wrinkles conspire to make a map of mars on your face)

That's where, in pleasant green hills grandfatherhood, I will look upon my golden retinue of children and children's children.

The perpendicular gothic of the stone beams and concrete arches will be a part (apart) of the defining way (a road to, an avenue between).

All happy then, indescribable joy descends.

Pick the meaning of the preceding, there's something there for all of you.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011