bichoose (bichoose) wrote,

Wednesday 21st April 2010. not often..that i can muster up the mind games to sit here awhile on the next day after i have posted in my blog and ponder thoughts across this blank white screen. There are times when such a screen becomes scary, the memories of old teachers,old parents, with the shaky finger whom pronounced that my intelligence would raise no further than winters clod,become chains around my mind.
This blank screen in large uncharted territory seems a snowstorm of wants, expectations, and all those dribbles which lie at the fringes of my mind cascade into the often posted writers block question, which so often is pictured on so many blogs,that  the moon seems so reachable on such days, and the clatter of letters screaming across the page in the two fingered Charleston succumb to its own dance.Once i believe in the vibes churning amongst the friends,gargoyles hobgoblins whom live within me.
As each day awakens, as each day i become older,small pages turn a leaf more meaning full, from whence i once used to brush a side with such a squiff such thoughts in the meaningless of time.
Nor is not often that when the demons have come i can still remember their footsteps their darts their thrusts in savage prisms amongst the early dawn,when i rise from slumber,and still think on as the days hours dwindle.
During this time i dreamed of my grandfather..i dreamed we were stood in a pub,i had my arm around him and we sang together, our voices were old and out of tune, the beer also flowed and i recall at some point i held a glass to his lips and he dribbled. I recall the conversation that he climbed out of the trenches during the first battle of the Somme in 1916 and advanced into battle in one of the greatest losses in one day the British army has ever endured,some 75,000 were killed or wounded.
The fact is i have not dreamed of my grandfather so real ever in my life for perhaps forty years....he was indeed a fine pub singer back in those days and he did indeed climb up above the trenches.
If i was not a transvestite would such a dream bother me in the eventide of the day. Perhaps not,and pink slippers and strawberry's would win the day. old Hugh would say...


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