Don’t you hate those times when you manage to gouge a hefty chunk of flesh out of your knuckles on the corner of something sharp? ouch ita ita, says the poor nemo as he sucks his bloodied knuckles. That’ll teach him - strangling baby seals is an art best left to experts.
Well I am in a considerably better mood than when I last written’d in my blogg’d. Not to say that nemo is in a good mood, that is of course an obvious dichotomy, and I am proud to be a miserable cunt; However ignoring that it’s the end of the week and I can fucking sleep in tomorrow. Woop. A dreaming we will go. If you are offended by words like cunt, then don’t worry, just like porch monkey, I’m takin’ it back!
mmm listening to John Peel Tribute’y goodness right now. I will reminisce about Peely for a moment if I will. My foundest memories of him were listening to his ever humorous coverage of Glastonbury - one particular event involving a silly hat comes to mind. The day that I heard he had died I cried a good bucket of salty tears. I think I ended up calling my mum, sitting on my bed in my bedroom in brizzle crying my eyes out. Where were you on that day?
I do so miss him. I think that was about the time that I stopped listening to the radio, it just didn’t feel the same without him coming in over the air waves. Of course these days there are some fantastic online radio stations you can tune into, which I do make advantage of. It’s just harder to find good ones because there are so many!
One particular station I would recommend is Dirtyradio.net. It’s the radio station of my favourite band in the world Underword. It has an eclectic mix of indie and electric music and is a great place to hear new stuff. Another fav of mine is bluemars.org, if you want to chill or have something to sleep to then tune in to it’s minimalist beats ambient vibe.
The Tower
so. Still in my tower overlooking the sea. A storm is coming in. The sky is roiling with purple and grey, sharp and angry like the sea beating against the cliffs below. I’m seated on a granite balustrade, my feet dangling over a perilous drop. The green cold sea below drawls like a tongue as it edges up the rocks.
Sometimes I like to lean forward, pressing down hard on my hands. I peer over the edge and look down at the fierce waves, watch gulls diving below to snap at errant fish too near the surface for their own good. I’ll dig my hands deep into the stone, feel every wrinkle and crease. It feels like old mans skin, and if you press your face to it you can smell the years of age, of salt and moss.
Long years ago, ages before I was ever born this tower was a place of terrible deeds. Some of the hallways are still stained brown and ochre, splashed with the past. As I wonder through them today what happened is lost in time, but you can still tell the violence of these events as you see the dark scars burnt into the rock. In some places the granite has even been reduced to a blackened and menacing sheen. These places I do not go.
I can smell the storm approaching. The air is full of ozone. The wind is picking up and the birds are calling out as they sail over me, a free and easy ride. I’m waiting for the first few drops of rain, my skin is tight in expectation. You can never tell when it’s about to fall, you have to wait for the feeling of those first few drops. It’s like an angel tickling you with it’s wings.
Sometimes when the wind is just right the tower will sing, it’s like the mournful cry of a gull. The birds respond with their own voices, adding to the orchestra. Once or twice I’ve heard my tower sing as the first few drops of rain kiss my upturned face. On those few occasions I’ve felt myself melt away to be replaced by everything, and by nothing.
I’ll sit in my tower, awaiting the storm from the east. Happily smiling out to sea.
