Old men, singing about space

This is a drunken rant which is an important kind of rant. I wrap myself in the terrible bracken of paraanoia and climate psychofakery. The WORLD is big and all enveloping and we are small and powerless but… we are also, a little potent. Because they are dull and shitty, and we have beautiful edges of pure ideal sensation. Those edges. Those pieces of firm world. A little fraction of reality. AND I am fully aware that this might seem like bullshit, or lunacy, or idiocy, but it is isn’t quite. This is a pure reality that the fucking media cannot mediate.  I  found god. I found god where he aways was. Which, naturally, isn’t quite the sarah palin god, or anyone fucking else’s god. Isn’t a god, that you would know. This one, is called Dave Brock. Beer is a holy thing. Christmas parties are a holy thing. I had a works do and Bhudda never did that but that’s his loss not mine. Here is the thing. I got mullered. NOT a rare thing, but for me, perhaps. I used to do a lot of drugs, drink, et al. Not so much. But tonight, I broke through.

Music has always been important to me. That is a trivial, inconsequential way of looking at it. Important. Big fucking deal. But it is all to me. Those tones. Those chord changes. Thsoe guitar breaks. I remember….

I remember the golden eagle, in brum. I remember nantucket sleighride.  19…78?

The carpet was sticky. We bought weed and acid in the bogs. The decor… was victorian. I saw it. I don’t remember thinking much of it, but I do now. The eagle was a fine pub, bikers pub. Wooden nooks crannies, partitions, a great jukebox. Great for the day. Nantucket sleighride was there. Mountain. Bikers pub. There were United Bikers, there were outlaws as would be, there were proto slaves. Operation Julie. It was a … original melting pot. It wasn’t actually. It was a fucking war that hadn’t broken out. People died because of who they drank with, in that pub. I’m really not kidding.

But y’know, all I recall, clearly, is the sticky carpet. I can see men who died at the end of a shotgun, but the sensation I feel is carpet clinging to my boots.

Tonight. I just got pissed, and sat in a pub, and played hawkwind and mountain on the internet jukebox. Stupid. Beautiful. Old men, as my wife says, singing about space. Dave Brock, singing about space.

Can’t find myself, can’t bring myself, to go see them again. Now she’s fucking said that. Old men, singing about space. Not too close to the truth. It is the truth. Old men, singing about space.

Well why the fuck not?

Why not? Fuck them all. I am a wastrel. I am a dreamer. I am a space cadet. I realise and understand and want it all. I’ll take it. Orion ships, bang bang bang. The pink deep burn of space. The cold dark. Space is deep.

Space is deep.

You know how you find yourself looking at the entire world and feeling so… insignificant. Well I don’t mind that. I’m the king of the fucking world, did you not know? What bugs me is not insignificance, it is uncertainty. When I sit in a pub, with hawkwind on the ‘net jukebox, I am not uncertain.

I am locked in.

I am the right stuff.

Watch my trail