The Fair

The fair had returned to town again. Many of the villagers thoroughly anticipated its arrival each year, for all manner of reasons. It would not be a stretch actually to say that the whole year round was organised to make as much money as possible in this brief one week window. For the children it was a back yard party of epic proportions. For the locals it was a source of great revenue for the coming winter (though the transformation of the town wasn’t exactly pretty and naturally some crime accompanied such an event), and for the travelling brigade it was a lovely spot close to the seaside with fresh air and stunning scenery, the rolling green hills seemingly painted from an artist’s palette.

The young kids, predictably so, loved the balloons and candy floss, the smaller rides and the lights and magical atmosphere. The older kids preferring the larger rides, like the roller-coaster and that one that spins you in all directions until you projectile vomit on some poor sap below who you all made carry your bags and stuff, as they hadn’t had the appetite for such a ride. The adults came in their droves too, carrying children, pushing prams, Lord, in fact, there were even adolescents pushing their own small mites in prams. It all went on here. There were always new ideas for how to make money at these fairs, though most ideas failed miserably, and the core of the fair had long remained the same now. At least, to my recollection.

This year there is a stall with beautiful big balloons, filled with helium, almost pushing their way towards the sky, bursting for freedom. Modern parents are drawn to this stall as it seems to hypnotise their small children more than any of the other balloons ever have. The balloons are so large I swear I saw one child nearly lift off from the ground yesterday.

The fair as ever has come and almost gone in the usual fashion. There isn't much to report. People have attended in their droves, from families to teenagers in groups and a sea of single parents pushing prams to a light sprinkling of the more elderly local residents who despite harbouring feelings that the fair has changed almost beyond recognition since they were young and longing for those days to return, simply take a stroll down Nostalgia Lane more than anything else. There have been some small crimes, there has been the habitual alcohol related behaviour of the teenagers, who pretending they are cool drink too much and get up to all kinds of mischief – from sex and vomit, to smoking and of course exploratory forays into the world of using drugs. Then there are the vultures who own the stalls and rides, and the local villagers with shops, who swoop down to take full advantage of the consumers. It's just like real life, every day, ticking on by, familiarly, reliably and somewhat tragically.

A few days before the fair is set to come to an end something most extraordinary happens. I must be dreaming, in fact. I swear I see a baby drifting off into the sky, floating sublimely. I am drawn closer to events at one of the stalls. It's the balloon stall again, where only days before a child had appeared to almost take off. Well, this time it has been orchestrated, at a quiet time of the day, for a young woman who had been discussing something rather seriously with the stall holder, to pass by with her baby in tow. Now there he was, her baby boy, departing on a gentle invisible wave of air, as the slightly larger than normal balloon soars into the sky with her small baby attached. People quickly notice this. In fact, he isn't even the first child. A second lady has just departed, as her child, a girl, is spotted further away in the distant sky. The string, tied around their waists has them in a kind of swimming position, doing the breast stroke through the thin air. It is extraordinary to watch these helpless babies being sucked into the abyss of the sky, as those below shrink into nothingness, as the sky takes possession of an unwanted child. Oddly, it's extremely beautiful. It's a clear day, and it's so intoxicating to watch every second until the children, these smallest of ones, have become like distant birds, like far off hot air balloons, just specks on the panorama of the skies.

That was that. The village became the centre of a media storm. The news was filled with it, on an international scale, and the final two days of the fair were mayhem, as more and more people came from further and further afield, hurrying to see if the trend of releasing ones child into the heavens had continued or been curbed. Of course though, there was now huge demand. There were those who were opposed to it, there were those who were queuing to take part, as with every fad, and there were those who simply wanted to see it with their own eyes. Young women, and some men too, had come with their babies, and even toddlers, to have them attached to balloons and sent off into the sky. Strangely, nobody put a stop to it. It was like throwing problems down a well, nobody could see them so surely they existed no longer. More and more tiny crying children were absorbed into the blue heaven of the sky. It was like nobody believed it enough to actually close down the stall. The owner was selling so many balloons he was thrilled, though he was uncertain how it could have lasted until even the second day of this strangely surreal happening. He also pondered how parents could do it, but he knew many modern parents lacked the discipline and intelligence to raise children with love, nurture them and teach them to grow and think and care for its fellow man. He figured the children were probably better off away from their parents, those willing to buy a balloon and watch as the abandonment became complete, though nobody really knew what happened to those poor babes. Frankly, it was the children who were relieved of growing up with such incompetent parents that were the winners here, more than the parents who were escaping the problems of their own shortcomings. It wasn't about the ending but the journey and those poor little ones had been saved an arduous route to adulthood, regardless of what became of them now.

The whole thing resembled some wonderful art project in which babies were tied to giant helium balloons and people watched as they sailed away into the sky. There were balloons of all different colours. There was certainly no shortage of babies. It was far more than just art though, it was a fully symbolic representation of the times. Firstly, people loved to follow trends, and secondly, most parents, especially the young ones, had no idea what they were getting themselves into (let alone the fact that they had nothing to pass on or educate a child about). One balloon was the colour of the sky. As the string became invisible to the increasingly distant naked eye it looked like a sole baby floating up to heaven with no aiding force. It was a stunning image that might be hard to imagine for the reader/listener (so please try very hard here). After a more successful final few days, that brought more fame and glory, however questionable it might have been, to the village, the fair entered its final evening. It had certainly been the most memorable of all the many years the village had held the festival, though what would happen in the future remained up in the air, just like the balloons, carrying the babies onward, surely to a much better place.

I move away from the site of this madness, the fairground continuing into the evening and its final hours for another year, and soon darkness has descended upon the streets. I can hear the commotion fade into the distance behind me and I turn around to see the lights of the fairground erupting into the sky. It all seems like a dream, but having pinched myself earlier and not awoken there are no further questions about the reality of it all. There are shapes, figures, a gentle and sublime trail of them leading up, up and away into the sky. They are somebody's babies, attached to balloons, escaping their cages. The fairground lights are enough to illuminate the closest ones, as a slow trail disappears into the night.

Suddenly from out of nowhere raindrops begin to fall. The sky had been so clear and blue only minutes before the night had thrown its cape over daylight, not a cloud in the sky. Now the sky is darkening by the second and I am starting to get quite wet. Before long big round raindrops, almost like the balloons the babies had been tied to are falling all around, tapping on my uncovered head, shaking my thoughts. I am soon soaked. My hair is falling into my eyes, my view distorted. What of those little ones flying through the air now? Where are they, are they soaked or peacefully floating above these wretched clouds? Where would they land if ever? As the rain falls, tapping at my thoughts, the kids are at the forefront as I look up and become rooted to the spot, transfixed.

Between the raindrops I can see a woman standing there. She looks lost, hope drained from her eyes. She has this ornamental body, and it isn't hard to see through her tight clothes. She is wearing a white shirt, a small jacket and a tight skirt, with black high heeled shoes. Just standing there in the rain. She isn't a hooker, she is smartly dressed, and there is a very good reason for her sadness. She has finally found out the truth of life. She has found out what many of us are searching for. Now, she is stood there, motionless, sobbing, her tears just more droplets of tragedy adding to the world and its water.

Each raindrop (and the tears) falling is a man that died at war, needlessly. Each drop is a symbol of lost hope, of hurt, of what has vanished forever, and still she is standing there. There is no way of avoiding the raindrops. There is no way out. The sound of the rain is the battle, the war, raging all around us, crashing on the roofs and gutters, bouncing off the street and trees, slapping at the windows.

She is standing there, at her end, knowing why it all happens. She is just watching the raindrops, wishing somehow she could move between them. She is soaking wet, she knows all the answers, and there is nowhere to go. People come along and ask her what is wrong, what they can do to help, if she is okay, and still she sobs, speaking no words to them. Before long, and after several people have given up, she herself understands the magnitude of the task - avoiding the raindrops - and having been there so long, motionless, with just the stream of seemingly never-ending tears pouring from her eyes, she turns to stone. There she remains as a weeping statue.

The 2nd Annual Celebration of a Man With No Name (Parts 1 and 2)

One

Birthday to birthday
Chained to memories
Evolving as predicted, and how
The claws of the seas

The truth can be felt
Revolving on tongues
Sometimes swallowed
Sometimes leaping from the jaws of songs

Whatever we are
Slowly fading
Everybody moving through
Ever masquerading

The man, a man
One with no name
Out there somewhere
Part of a game

For heaven's sake
They don't return
No chin to shoulder
Behind you burns

Exquisite eye
Feast upon
The humour of
Watching where the river goes until it is gone

_________________________________________________________________________________


Two

Dearest nameless folk,

For having no name doesn't mean one does not exist. The memory bank and truly odd games. You are out there, similarly ageing, grey hair appearing, the days grinding you down. Doubtless there are highlights, flickers of joy, memories of all the toys, living lies, because that's all there is to survive.

Turn off lights. You try the darkness on for size, see how it fits. For those who know it too well it doesn't come recommended. Remember the tunnel.

I could wish you happiness but what would that matter. In foreign places little can unite us. But, that is just perspective. Somebody's narrow perspective. Tunnels without light. Strange ones indeed.

You once spoke words and I forgot your name. They met me like arrows, clawed their way inside, rattled around and caused damage, changing a man forever, but somehow that isn't allowed.

But today is a special day. I suppose they all look and feel the same, but it's special I'm told. I wish you well, perhaps even for a dream fulfilled to exit from the wishing well, find you and comfort you, even as we age we need the comfort kids knew. Turn the light on. Like a nephew's night time light. Darkness is for going nowhere. Nowhere at all.

Eternally,

The Hobo Artist

Another Page

Has it really been two years? Has it really been four different countries and only two visits back to my country of birth, my Fatherland, and my ever shrinking family there? I have fallen more deeply in love with words with each passing day, or so it has felt. That said, there is room for much growth still to come. Hopefully, this relationship is just getting started.

For all the battles to find dreams and slow down time end so hopelessly, yet still fresh hope is somehow invested in a constant cycle that never let's true defeat conquer. Sometimes it's all too much, at other times maybe you never felt stronger. They knock you down easier than they do anything else. It's their number one role, they perform it well. If it were their job and they were paid for it, well they'd be masters of their craft. It isn't though, and they aren't anywhere near as good at anything else.

These days stroll by like easy memories. Short ones, long ones, all slipping pointlessly by. Another page, that lasts but a moment, another song, but yes, it can change everything. I think about the tortured dog, the woman I love, the sleeping past, awaking when it seemed gone forever, the faces that somehow form your heart, the places, the words, the pages, the smells, the vibrations, and the endless music.

There is just too much to say, but words have a place where they are brilliantly strung together. Still searching, finding jewels that didn't seem possible some time ago, uncovering secrets and dressing in the colours of night.

Returning feels sweet, good to know those places haven't also departed forever. Happiness shining, from behind the clouds, from cracks in the faces, from the darkest of places, always comes light.

Once More In Arms

Good evening, Bill Fay. Good evening, beautiful ones. Grandfathers and ticking clocks, ageing as we are, all of us are fragile, all of us have battlescars, weary and energetic. Once again we are united, we came together for something. Love blossom, never know those boundaries. Never call us in, for we were born to explore, to never end here. All of this is magic, all for souls.

A new page is whatever you want it to be, turn out your pockets, what you put in them now is a matter of choice.

Pins

Pins

Popping me

Letting all that magic and hope out

Pins

One at a time

Replacing me with doubt

Pins

And pretty things

Somehow it’s all so far

Pins

Bursting memories

All now distant stars

Those pins

To set us free

To let all my troubles spill from me

Those pins

For someone, not I

All I have are pins to die

These pins

Puncturing

Now demons keep the off switch on

These pins

So merciless

A wand, a spell, and I am gone

When The Rain Comes In (Each Raindrop A Thought)

I see everything, the world around me, as songs and poems. I don't think people understand me, at all, and nor do they need to, but it just complicates a man's road at times. Why justify what is clearly special dust? I break hard but it's hard to break.

The more I travel around, the more I see there are simply women everywhere, of all kinds of shapes and sizes, and hearts and faces, all kinds of ways that they possess, and they are woven into every single little thing. And breathe...

Have you ever thought about waking up in the morning and doing everything differently, of breaking the routine? What drove you not to? Was it fear, or committments, or you just didn't know how to carve a path that wasn't thrust into your way? Propel me to do something, from my own heart, not the chasm from whence others force advice upon us.

I hurt so much from missing you, and for so long. I've thought recently that I'd never make it back to see you again. That none of my life had been real, it was just an intense series of dreams. Maybe that isn't far from the truth, and how will we ever really be sure of anything.

Emptiness

You are emptiness, my friend. Like a magnificent castle standing before us, with nothing inside. There is so much you could be, but alas, the failure is so precise and sweet. All these roads of communication and you slip by the wayside, lost forever to us. To contemplate, and if I truly did disappear, forever from view, that emptiness would echo, and hollow out the giant chasm of your blindness further.

You are emptiness, personified. Trapped and gutless, ruthlessly tragic, never a moment for those, when all they ask is a hand. The strings and bows, only serve to augment your selfishness, an eternity of shores. When you think yourself warm and tender you are only hiding, you are sleeping at night on the pillow of comfort, with half your blessings clouded. Nothing is further from you than the greatness you shift uneasily away from.

I pity those who deny all that made them, shallow waters won't hide the body lying there. When the body is gone forever, may its ghost haunt those who showed a shoulder.