Saigon

It was so long between me seeing those bombers and what did that all mean, those falling, black tubes? At five before the end of the sixties, that was the only news I knew, that everywhere was at war and yet here was always peaceful. Nearly always! What war lasted for so long? They must have it wrong for I was either at school being told to be quiet or running about in the fields and parks with no worries at all. My dad sheltered me from all that; he hid any trouble from me and coming home was a retreat from the black world of the B52s into a safe blanket-lined den. It was only later that I knew they were B52s and much later that I knew that a B52 was also a hairstyle and a rather strange group who took no part in the Vietnam war. And then that general shot the crying boy and we all thought he had something missing. Know the real story and maybe some sympathy will switch positions. We are illiterate and proud, knowing just enough to be here and logged in. Knowing just enough to know that we know just more than anyone. All those years when I thought I was dumb and here we are and me so arrogant as to really believe that I can spell better than anyone. Really it is the machines which keep us going, checking the spelling and the grammar as we go like so many fairies in the background. So many people and so little intellect, just enough education to breath and bang the rocks together.

They hadn't heard of electric folkies then. Maybe Dylan had wound up the Fisherman's jumper brigade with his electric performance but you had none of the fey techno stuff that skitters round the ipod earphones these days. Everyone trying to be Nick Drake rather than Nick Cave. That was murder. Soon I will have everything I have ever listened to or written stuffed on some grain of dust implanted under my skin and I will be happy. No more stuff to buy, ever. There isn't anything left to do and so maybe we will just shut down and listen to all our music in one go. 2500 CDS; that's nearly a year's worth of music in one go but then again so many are listened to over and over. You must know what they are by now and how are we coming along with that project to database the lost. Those Tibetan ones may be coming out of the garage soon.

And all those teenage dreams come crashing down in a fit of embarrassing memories, of missed opportunities and being turned down by beautiful girls. She was in white and would have broken had I touched her, spinning away in pieces leaving me in some scenery red-faced and wanting to be eaten by the hell beneath. The ground never opens up when you want it to. The real ones are hidden in your friends, the foul-mouthed ones who teach the kids to swear while mother is out of the vehicle. It is all so hard to beat and what do you want on your tombstone?

I am so sick now. The room is not quite right, maybe not spinning yet but guttering back and forth in preparation. In Limbo with Virgil and the other boys it is so sad but still a permanent existence, peaceful with time to read but so alone despite being with excellent company. Is it real despite not believing? The whole world at the end of this keyboard, not a thing hidden, the president's shoe size, maybe just a haircut and how stupid is that? This dream is short and happy.

Lapsed? Me? With my reputation?