Bursting into Flames… And Then What?

I’m preparing for an encounter with the Brighton curator in my air shelter on Cross Street.

Something’s overlapping, I’m not sure what exactly.

Perhaps the line: “I’m a stationary sculpture, I’m meant to be broken” is causing friction when coupled with the sound of “Pay with Card” still ringing in my ears after my recent trip to Asda.

Whatever it is, something isn’t right. Some energy is amiss today. Have I been the victim of a deception? Have I allowed my partner’s emotions to whirl around me like a carousel?

Away from the ridiculousness, the museum staff is preparing for a group show on New Age hippie culture at the Brighton Royal Pavilion.

It’s my job to write the exhibition catalogue.

This is what I’ve written thus far…

“We’re all film extras in a holographic universe. After a night of lucid dreaming I wake up and reach for my vibrator.

We need healing, sound healing; not the kind of healing you find at Asda. But in saying that, I’m not the kind to mistake masturbation with salvation!

We live, we morph, we die. Did you fulfill your promise, today? You don’t need to be a call centre victim anymore, all the hours of the 24.

Brighton changes with every new wave of gentrification.  And then what?

In the New Age of Enlightenment, will the Brighton street names evolve? Will Shelley Road become Flying Yogi Street? Will Coleridge Street become known as: The Happiness Of Life Is Made Up Of Minute Fractions….”

Anyway, I must dash. The curator will be alongside me, momentarily.


In my unremarkable corner of the world I’m thinking what’s really going on?

Whilst it’s been widely publicised that humanity has reached the tipping point in favour of the Age of Aquarius and today is the newly-inaugurated NATIONAL HOLIDAY TO COMMERATE LETTING GO OF THE PAST COMPLETELY: all that my cynical brain can come up with in response to both those claims is a rather pathetic “Really”.

As in “Really you don’t say…”

I pride myself on being able to digest the 5 a day fruits and vegetables equivalent of New Age mumbo jumbo spiritual advice which lands on me in a heap every time I turn the pages of “The Secret”, but does letting go of the past really include not caring that I didn’t put my rubbish out on the right day at the right time as dictated by British Government diktat.

In case you’re foreign and unaware: here in the UK, parking your garbage bags at home carries a heavy financial penalty. It’s 40 pounds for a first offence, rising exponentially week on week.

So glad I studied Russian language (and Russian culture since the Tsars’ time) for my university degree in modern languages and international relations, otherwise, I wouldn’t have a fucking clue about what’s going on in so-called modern Britain (as ruled by the Conservative-Liberal Democratic alliance for mutually destructive twits).

(Sorry am I starting to rant?)

To mark the occasion of “letting go of the past completely”, I do hereby stop regretting each and every moment that I’ve been dishonest and fucked somebody simply for the pleasure of driving the proverbial knife into the heart valve of my partner.

 Forgive me: I know not what I do….

On a clear day when the sun is high in the sky and the heavens are cloudless, I regret nothing but my ‘unpleasant sweetness’.