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November 3rd, 2018

Saturday 3rd November 2018.

The first line, first mark, is always the hardest as i stare across this white blank screen on this Saturday morning which does not feel at all like a Saturday. I have climbed out of the pit of dreams pulled on my busted bra turned on this here machine clocked the unearthly time and thought the small word gosh.
I have flopped back into my world with ease it does not take long to pull on the suit of armour to dwell amongst these city streets of the Manchester Basin after four days in spray painted Brussels care of flying in a tin bucket which always shocks me as to the miricle of flight, the pilot of the outbound flight on the Sunday morning must have been a board child with a rubber ball...the way the aircraft was thrown around the sky i could have closed my eyes thinking i was a  gunner in some old world war bomber, the relief in landing was given in a heavy sigh into thinking why do i climb aboard these shock waves which climb through the clouds, i have found the older i become the less joy i feel from being strapped inside a tin plane, only my I-Pod and the intense heat from the hot sunshine pouring through the small window after climbing through the clouds brings a joy taking my mind away from the nuts and bolts of flying.
It has been thirty years since i was last in Brussels the famous market square, the cast bronze lady whom people like to touch touch for good luck and the small iron statued boy in a tiny street corner whom pisses forever and now behind railings such is the world today are the only small spaces in time i can recall from thirty years ago..There are vast changes in new buildings reaching up into the sky some as ugly as fuck others a sort of ho-hum which do not make the eyes squint...It is a nice city to roam on foot around tight compact cobbled streets opening up into small squares of joy and wonder...the small boy mind is set free staring into chocolate shop windows. Only the harsh reality of adult life brings one back into the real world...of the spray panited manic's of the chanting flag waving free Palestine crowd whom gather outside the Brussels central train station chanting away with gusto whilst some comrades cover the city in spray paint, " Fuck Israel "on classic buildings..others grab your arm asking for money for small children but the mind thinks the money is for rockets and bombs so inwardly your mind thinks fuck off but in reality you shrug and continue walking with a mind set of once more climbing into a tin aircraft for home....



This will not stop me from visiting this fine classical city roam its cobbled streets finger amongst the small shops..in the near future whether England is in Europe or not or the sarcastic coments from a few people i met on the streets about us ever leaving which i still do not think will happen or if it does it will not be in my last nine yards of life...and i do hope the angry crowd continue their chants but are they not better doing such back home in the country they feel needs to be free and leave Belgium to sell chocolate in peace. Life is as they say...So Goeth...

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bichoose
bichoose

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