hi Angus, what keeps you awake at nights? For me (it is now 3am) it was your post. Normally, I would fret, as sleep is necassary for optimal functionality in the work enviroment of tomorrow. But, with the Covid lockdown, lately (or earlierly), I've been getting up and writing about the things that keep me awake, so here I am. The story was great. I love "the mystery of history, the echo of the past, the bleached bones of eons, lying in the grass" me. And, I would Like to Share it, as some of my Friends may Like Love HaHa Wow Sad Angry it as well. This brings me to the thoughts that were keeping me awake.I presume that writers write to be read, and you sharing "... something Dad, Iain Gillies, had written..." got me to pondering about the changing nature of publishing, which, I'm sure you as a journalist are well aware of. In this era of the internet, which was thought, maybe, to be the revolution that would finally liberate the masses (thinking about a young Robert Hannah here). And the seeming (there's a pun there) activity and control of the old old old Imperical forces in controlling and monetising everything that (...Dang! my PC just crashed!.Seems to be a sychronicity to that whenever I'm confronting evil lol...) they can. Yet Art, that creative impulse, that yearning for a voice, the freedom to listen, to exercise free will, pushes back. But I sense that there is So Much More !!! human potential (again - Robert Hannah) sitting out there on dusty shelves and backburners simmering away. I crave for a good method to ignite and unite the almost 7 billion methods I live with on this planet. So I was lying there unable to sleep,trying to solve all the worlds problems in my head and thinking about comments. Comments.. all those billions of mostly unread opinions, points, and personalitys contributing to the conversation.The comments on comments... Rabbit holes and how deep they can go. So I thought I may as well get up and make this Comment. adVance
again, it's the middle of the night and i'm awake and asking myself, why the f... did I throw a boot at angus' head ? I'm sure it wasn't you or what you said, even if it was brilliantly witty, or maybe it was exactly for that reason.I reckon that I was just kicking the cat and you were the cat I was seeing. I have always admired you and your literary legacy(and maybe, throwing these comments in your direction is a metaphorical boot) I remember the party but have no recollection of said incident. I do know that I had just spent the last four or five years creating crisis for the sake of creativity. "I'm very much a person who creates his own crisis. Crisis is essential for creativity, it's what makes you able to do what you couldn't do before. Being in a stable condition is probably conducive to producing a nicely balanced work, but the really good stuff, that comes from pain not comfort, pain is essential, and if you have not got any pain then you had better go and find some" Sting. Maybe I'd gone too far in that direction. At that phase of my life I had definatly fallen off the edge, and a couple of weeks later was sectioned for my own good. I had started journalling those years before as I needed to sort out my life. The catylist was losing a fight at the River Bar (another cat) and the next morning breaking my surfboard at Pines. I knew that I had to do something. I was not in a good place and heading nowhere that was any better. A seed had been planted at the time of leaving intermediate to go to high school, by my teacher, who had reported that in his opinion the best carreer path for me would be journalism. So I started writing, hoping that it would be my salvation. It wasn't, but whilst in hospital I did receive salvation from a Source that I'd had no idea about. Forty years on and I am still tapped into that source and life is good, and yes, a lot mellower. In that time I've hardly written at all, just a few poems and scattered thoughts jotted down on old scraps of paper and envelopes. Havn't needed to. Yet, the recognition of that desire to speak in this way has never left. My mother died two weeks ago. Since then and with the opportunity that Covid 19 has provided I have again picked up the pen. “But it isn't easy,' said Pooh. 'Because Poetry and Hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. And all you can do is to go where they can find you.― A.A. Milne, The House at Pooh Corner Sorry about the window. There is a girl here in New Brighton who writes messages in the sand. Just the other day i made a small video high lighting part of it's words.
As for Grey/ Gray ( same meaning but unfortunate name as I remember him as being definatly black or white) I have only seen him once since I moved out of 40 Grey street and my impression was that he'd straightened up a bit but was a bit gray. Before that was sitting on the steps at 40 reading my new bible and him responding to it that he was going to get 666 tattooed onto his forehead.lol I moved out pretty soon after as I no longer required self medication and wasn't really relating to the "wild men" anymore. I have looked for them over the years on social media, but no find.
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