Monday, 28 April 2008

“What a scummy man”

I have ‘Mardy Bum’ playing over and over in my head. It’s been playing since some time on Saturday evening. What a catchy little riff. We had a good night at the Red Room, and thankfully, this time I remember a bit more of it than I do from the previous occasion. Otherwise I’d be very concerned and wondering why my body is stiff and a little achy…

I am not on the whole remorseful, how could I be when I knew full well what I was doing, and the end could plainly be seen before it began?

Also to be thankful for is the fact that in less than three weeks I’m leaving the country and in doing so, a few memory triggers that I should just rather forget. But it’s my silly romanticism that keeps getting in the way. Hah! Love!

I don’t want to forget though, and I wont forget that last time, the white lines, the watery eyes of the big man, the bright glare of the early morning, I wont forget the druggies bed and that I slept. We all need affection and a friend…I have a restless desire only for the drama of romance and of the reconciliation that comes with it. The beauty, and then the sword, tears, pleading and…release. The drama was legendary, but it is time for new reminiscences.

Reading up about the lovely Miss Pamela Courson, it turns out she was a quiet child, a bit of a recluse who didn’t mix well with the neighbors children. Which brings me to a thought on childhood. We make excellent children, we play, we daydream and frolic the hours away, our imaginations aimless and free, drifting to wherever they may take us; however, as adults we just can’t cut it. We turn to narcotics, booze and inappropriate partners, loving the abuse we receive at their hands. Then, at the age of 27 take just a little too much heroin and it's all over.

2 comments:

  1. She does look a bit like you. But what does it mean? Am I the scummy man?

    ReplyDelete
  2. Not necessarily. You want to be the scummy man? Actually, I was just listening to the Arctic Monkeys while I was typing.

    ReplyDelete