Memory and impartiality are two children with a broken toy.
They told me never to hide. There’s no time for games when you’re four feet into next week and finding out you’re a million different people … with just another broken tent. The transience of canvas, and stuff. I dropped the ball. A whirling dervish, shedding, ending up with nothing. And then you go from there. Layer after layer until morning …
Haggard girls queue in front of pink canvas to undo last night and redo their faces. New girls emerge. Mystical. Then there are the lost boys … and dust, the great leveller …
Time is never on your side when you’re moving with heaving masses trying to make a virtue of restlessness. Lights abide. It’s a lukewarm feeling that makes no bones about what it is. Much is missed.
More tents and super-fast pizza delivery. There are many people, but where is everyone? Someone says ‘Innit’. I guess they are.
The two-day old trail mix eaten on a marvelously esoteric walk discovers gravity amidst the concentric warblings of a fungi frenzy. A port-a-loo is the last place you want to be. Life makes too much sense when your pants are down.
I’m distracted by hairstyles and emotive effort. The sound is the same and recipes work for a reason, mostly because of the salt. Outwardly I crave something new, but the chanting, thumbing and dancing are a boyhood blanket. The drum beat stays the same.
I wake up. Some said ‘green’, some said capitalist distraction technique. Do you care that you’ve been wasted in the face of ecology? That’s not apathy, that’s something else.
And then I’m exhausted, stripped down to my underwear and dirty, and I turn to someone and say …
‘Lets go home.’
