The Painting of Owls.

A Confounded Letter about how I met my second wife before I met her again much later.

 

These are the days of cotton acoustics. Lying back imagine her and looking up. These are times for long hair, head bands, beads and multicolours. Reasoning with friends, what make the best roaches and what are the most worthy underground magazines? These are days of brief meetings and longings. Of the common art combined in gate fold sleeves and of dreams, wet or otherwise. These times belong in total to someone else. Lazy Dante on the bridge, features of current change and with hindsight it became a wonderful thing.

Buying fine squirrel brushes to copy Pre Raphaelites for her truest impressions of first and lost love. Impress, impressed and impressive. Hanging up and hanging on long stupid calls in red phone boxes and cider parties in the drugged dark.

Frightened to mention love, lust or infatuation and so lying to escape in those tame time ministrations. Meetings in city art galleries after long journeys for no reason but to see her and become stomach churning nervous. Discuss with friends in small modern bedrooms and ignore the explicit warnings given and taken. Don't know what you mean. You wont stop me. No matter what you say. All machine statements ignored.

Release and sepia reprise throughout that naive decade of change. Experiment and show off the wonders of flash backs both chemical and otherwise. Acid mentions of headless girlfriends and knotty problems.

Paintings were giants in those days, stalking the quiet student studio land in liquid light show humours. The joke was bad and the substitute lovers were at least as destructive, whatever the success rate. The music in the gatefold sleeves was overly complex and liked all the more so for that. The poor obscure was our creed.

To London to see Saint Rossetti on a train with corridors and a couple offering hot strong tea in flasks. Frightened of being alone in separate rooms, in the big capital without understanding the rules. Wandering whilst wondering about glimpses of matching underwear. Wanting to try but frightened of the inevitable rejections. Painting the nightime owls outside the park side windows. Drawing and swapping each other relaxing.

When we are alone will you try anything? Was asked and answered slowly and with thought. Just as slowly as what came later. Be like that then was said in answer to my reply. The reason for saying no I won't try anything. Meeting her boyfriend, rushing into his arms, at the home station. The poor embarassment of the couple with tea. The inevitable conclusion. Lost and failing the game because of trying simply too hard. Twenty eight years later we finally met.

Reviews

[SM Davis]

Wow! Whoa! Oh my f*****g God! the younger days are professed to be so much easier than these grown up years. Reading this I say bullshit! Your writing has always served to humble me as a writer...and I do so enjoy reading such eloquent simplicity.

[Donald Meikle]

wow talk about relating to a train of thought and reaching back into the choices of youth. a folded straw, a makeshift roach, a thought train ride, I'll take the coach.
Nice trip mon, thanx for the ride.