It was late. I mean it was early. I don’t know what I mean. There’s some pretty beautiful things happening around here. And something else. It’s spacey. It’s Kevin Spacey. After the face-lift. That’s not fair.
Together we can do great things. I know we can. I must be dreaming. And I hate clichés. Hate ’em. What’s that sound? It’s somebody’s car in the lane. Vroom vroom. It’s six o’clock in the morning. You blink and get half up, thinking it’s your turn to set the blind. It’s a brilliant new morning and you’re not ready for it. You’ve only been down four hours. But you can feel it. You know it’s the glory of the morning and it’s time to meet it head-on. It looks like a head-on collision.
You remember the trumpets. And, oh, the trumpeting. The blast from the past. And you’re thinking, “Who exactly was the first disc-jockey to come up with that?” It doesn’t matter now. That’s so yesterday. Immediately it’s “who said that too”? Cut it out. It’s too early. The sound of the trumpet. A distant trumpet. They’re meowing at me to come. At least that’s what it sounds like. Meow meow. Not quite. It’s the actual cat doing that. She wants out. It’s 6:01 in the morning and everyone, including the flowers, forgot I’m not a morning person? It’s awful. I mean wonderful.
The intensity of these flowers in the sun. It’s incredible out here. How come I didn’t know about this? Get out of here. I did know about it. I just couldn’t face it.
And it’s been like this for weeks. While England slept. The images don’t do justice. I hate that expression. So why use it? Because I’m dumbfounded. Everybody knows what that’s like. It’s like when you’re dumbfounded. It’s something in your past. And what you didn’t know then you certainly won’t know now. You’re outraged that you didn’t know about this. Outrage is the wrong word.
You’ve answered the bell before and that’s what you’re doing this morning. You’re answering the bell. Answering the bell? That makes no sense. You’re so tired. I’m so tired, Grandma. My cliché thingy is working hard as rain. It’s overflowing. And with love, strange other-worldly love. I’m doing everything I can and obviously it won’t be enough. It could be over.
It might be over here. Already. Life’s like that. The end is the answer to every problem. If only. This planet cannot be saved. Forget it. The incredible sound of the flowers, bright and clear. It’s like how can they not last forever? But they don’t. It’s going to be over soon and you better get your bets in now. Here comes the big shrivel.
We be going back on ourselves. We be spending our coin and disappearing, jah. What was barely started is already almost over. It’s tragic. It happened to my shoes. They just plum wore out. Italian plums. I’ve never seen them since.
It’s 1:00 pm. I mean 2:00 pm. I mean 4:00 pm. I don’t know what I mean. It’s tough when you start to see your friends disappear. You just met them this morning and now they’re folding and moving on. It’s what they do.
It’s like why can’t things be different? I’m a young flower. I’ve got my whole life ahead of me. But your time, your hours, your district and everything about you is on the wane. Get off him. You know what? Wane should move out of here. He hasn’t paid the rent forever.
It’s five in the afternoon. Some are blaring. Some are shriveling. Some are waning. Wane has a core group of followers and not a lot else. He’s good though. And don’t get me started on the female waners. In fact, don’t get me started on ‘don’t get me started’. Less later. It’s over but for others it’s just beginning. It’s what happens.
Photogs courtesy CS Nicol