Friday, July 16, 2010
I'm going to backtrace a few days and post this "before" not "after". (Of course I understand the temporal potential of the non-linear blog, and its counterpart, the non rational mind. So, there we were in bed toged up, Me and Mrs Jones, botstrapped for everything (save our souls) as the mile high stadium wore off into the horizon, a sort of very blue hue, a mountain! And we were out of the city now, into the rawlands. It was this that Kerouac adored most. On his Henge trail I was, last year, rummaging around for pilgrimage notes. When did, why did, how did ..... I was reminded by Picasso to take the computer slowly: it can answer questions.... So there I was in Cornwall, sampling Kerouacean's native past. Hurah! The green algae down in Merlin's cave turned the water twerqwoise. Dippiing into. Ice! Yow. You Brits swim in this? No wonder yr frosty! And on into Saint de Ives bay where we were catcalling round the modern Tate's euphoric soundchamber to beach swill icecream and cakes that went "woof" straight down the cream tea. Essie was on the backbench with El and Bee, swigging Artois before napping beside the smurf. Boards in hand?