INFINITE DISTRACTION

chapter 1 - islands
Wanna know the truth? Well here it is. At last the crew went into some intensive training and were all awarded their sea-legs. Some specialised in navigation, others in carpentry, first aid and even voodoo. I'm proud of them, I really am. We set sail for Ibiza, the four of us on the foredeck of that mighty ferry, bow-spray foaming and hissing below us, the wind in our hair, a Titanic affair and no iceberg in sight. A discreet and distant moon shone down and made a little patch of magic on the sea. It were real pretty and the journey had only just begun.

chapter 2 - call that morning
We climbed all over that ship. Of course we did, from bow to stern and up to the top deck and it was all kind of magic, like the ship wasn't moving at all but was simply still and churning up that glittering water to keep itself amused. We ended up at a table in the ship's tavern, with charts and logs all spread out before us, mapping out the days ahead. Morale was high and so we drank to that, and the wind was low and the sea calm so we drank to that as well. All in all there was many a matter to evoke and consider and we crawled into our bunks in the wee hours, cheery and pleasantly fatigued, only to be awoken by the rap of the purser's knuckles on the door. Dawn had cracked and was washing over the world outside our porthole. Past the bobbing heads of smoking lorry drivers out on deck was the metallic shape of Ibiza. It were beckoning us, but we were bleary-eyed and not amused.

chapter 3 - Ibiza
Now we disembarked and did not lose many or even any of our personal possessions (that I know of), not our purses, items of clothing or our instruments -which are of course priceless to us, almost an extension of our own bodies and which we sometimes refer to as "the children". Intact and determined we crossed the island of Ibiza, though I cannot clearly recall whether that was done on foot or in some kind of vehicle. The truth is, it did not matter to us at that time of the morning. All you need to know is that we made our way across the island, passing many a handsome mansion entrance, warehouse, supermarket, wrecking yard and one or two dishevelled and bewildered windmills. We reached the other side from where we would embark once more and set sail for Formentera. We did not have very much time to look about but I do recall a fort on the hill and a jolly huddle of houses at the water line. Or were they shops and discotheques? The ferry, in fact, was all fired up and tugging at its ropes, so we hot-footed it and leapt across the widening gap between land and boat, "the children" in tow and slightly alarmed, tagging on behind us. Were a jolly bunch of truck drivers up on deck, scratching their slept-in heads and fingering their run-down mobiles, and a couple of nasty looking dogs that turned out to be of not an unpleasant character. You can't judge a book by its cover, and likewise, we are not all the most pretty of specimens, though some, of course, prettier than others. The ferry slipped its mooring and we glided out onto the sea once more -heaving in a relaxing kind of way- heading towards our destination. Breakfast of coffee and crisps.

chapter 4 - ships
Yes, breakfast of coffee and crisps, and a broken almond biscuit that was far too rich for our liking (we are simple folk) and the ship's motors humming below and the whole ship shuddering or shivering or whatever ships do when they are on their way. The children were stuffed in the baggage rack and had nothing to say for themselves. In fact, there was not a whole lot of intelligible conversation on that deck, at that time of the morning. We sat and watched rocky outcrops and tiny islands slip by us on the sea, and some loner gull bobbing on the water, hypnotised, as we were. And before we knew it we were gliding into the port of Formentera (sun just hitting the terminal wall, yachts and cruisers idle) not a soul there on the dock waiting for us, such a delicious feeling. We left the children in a pile and wandered aimlessly among the boats, all with well-considered names: "Paprika", "Loverboy", "Lost Weekend", "My Ex-wife", ... who are we to ask. The sun was rising up high and hot, and there was nobody on the stage but us. What would happen next?

chapter 5 - smoke
We set off on our way, of course, hopping and skipping and jumping, sometimes piggybacking, sometimes wheelbarrowing, even did a three-legged race. The children were not amused and were grumpy from lack of breakfast so we headed for a wisp of smoke we saw, rising from somewhere in the interior of the island. It were an inn and this inn was able to provide nourishing breakfast for hungry travellers like us. Sitting under the lush and generous shade of a fig tree, we then packed our pipes, reclined and took in the view, watching the comings and the goings along that road and noting an unusually high incidence of pregnant women, black dogs and other travellers on mopeds or scooters, in their souvenir T-shirts, flip flops and with their helmet straps flapping. We smoked our pipes and meditated on the turned earth and stone-walled fields, on the slowness of time and what to do with the urgency that we had brought with us from the mainland and the city.

chapter 6 - fields
We are experts in our field. Geniuses. We bake our own cakes and iron our own shirts. We are bachelors and masters and doctors, architects, landscapers and civil engineers. We can conceive, bear and burp babies. We dabble in fine arts and bricklaying. Some of us can fix a leaking tap, others tame wild animals. We do Tai Chi and mime and all of us can cook, to a certain extent, though to what extent is yet to be determined. We have come here for a reason, call it a mission if you like, we are troubadours and messengers come from other lands, and this night we are, above all, musicians and we have come here to hawk our wares, to shimmer and shine. But enough of this. It's time to be moving on. We get to our feet and hitch our trousers, then throw our pipes into the nearest field. We won't be needing them any more. We have work to do. We gather up the children (who have been sleeping under a tree, dear things) and search the horizon for a sign. A discussion ensues and we quickly arrive at conclusions. One says east, another says west, others opt for north. We set off in a southerly direction, shaking our heads and cursing that none of us has ever studied geography.

chapter 7 - it
We had brought far too much with us, and it was weighing heavy on our shoulders, hips and other parts. If something fell from our pockets we did not stop to pick it up. We were in our city attire and soon discovered that this was not at all practical or appropriate in this environment. I want a straw hat, said one, and rope sandals, said another. I want a donkey, yet another. As the dust rose up from the track beads of sweat welled and rolled down our faces. We had the children in our arms (what a pampered life they have, but really, they deserve it). We must have looked like a band of itinerant hawkers, or the remnants of a dysfunctional circus. I'm hungry, said one, I'm tired said another. Where are we going, we all asked in unison. And as nobody had an answer to that, we stopped dwelling on tangible things and practicalities and began to make fun of each other instead (plenty of material there), until we were rolling in the dirt and weeping with laughter. More than one had to run off into the bushes on some kind of emergency, only to reappear still giggling and chuckling. There was a stone wall on either side of the road and over in the fields a huddle of sheep, an idle tractor, a vegetable plot. Up ahead was a patch of forest, this particular species of pine tree, thick and squat and rounded like giant broccoli. We came over a rise in the road, and immediately fell silent. There it was before us.

chapter 8 - far enough
There it was. There it was before us, coming in as it always has, wave after wave, unfurling on the shore, washing all our cares away. The sea! A crystal aquamarine colour, or is it ultramarine, or turquoise or lemon squash, or opal, or some other pale blue stone? Whatever, … the breeze was constant and playing in the beachside trees, and the waves were busy at the rocks, and to the left, a soft and sandy beach. It was very inviting. Extremely. We are from the city and more accustomed to city bump and grind, to the grime and rumble of the metro deep beneath the ground. This was magic and it hypnotized us, drew us towards it, like we had stumbled upon something that had existed since the beginning of time and that we carried within us. It reminded us terribly of something, though we could not, for the life of us remember what it was. It were a potent moment, and we all felt it. So, … I suppose you can imagine what happened next, that we took to our heels and sprinted towards it, whole and united and carefree, shedding our burden along the way and leaving a telltale trail of boots, accessories, keys and clothes and that we plunged headlong into the waves, naked as the day we were born, enveloped and rollicking in the crystalline brine, children from the beginning of time. Imagine what you like. But let's be practical, our journey had only just begun, yet we had already come a considerable way. We stumbled through the sand and sat down on the beach, pulled off our boots and massaged the sand with our feet. The wind was blowing and brushing back our hair and the smell of the sea was strong and ever so soothing. We sat and watched the waves. We are simple folk and this is what we do. We watched the way those waves churned up the sand and weed, and spread themselves as thin as glass on the smooth, smooth sand. Here I am, each one seemed to say. Water's quite cold, said one of us. And then we all looked closely and saw the surprising shapes of medusas, floating like wine-coloured stars, their tentacles far too free and agile for our liking. I'm not going in there, said another of us, already ankle deep, but that was far enough.

chapter 9 - the earth
… and so we stretched out on the sand for a while, closed our eyes and drifted in and out with the waves. Daily concerns flickered on and off in our minds -dare I say it- like faulty neons, then ceased to function altogether, while those iridescent green lizards skittered across the pathways and among the dune grass. The sky was heavy and the colour of purple or plum, but what did that matter to us then? Nothing at all. We were far from the madding crowd, and the earth was turning ever so slowly and holding us gently in its folds.

chapter 10 - beauty sleep
Like coconuts washed up on the shore, like driftwood carried from different corners of the globe, like survivors from a wreck. That's what we were like. Who knows how long we lay there, or why. And what is that urge that suddenly pulls you to your feet and sets you on your way again? We drag ourselves from the sand and slither and slide, setting those little green lizards a skitter. We have work to do. We have to dust down and flatten our costumes and do something creative with our hair. We have to wipe the smudges off our faces and line the tunes up ready in our heads. We walk in the direction of the cabins, looking for one with our name on it. We go round and round them, rattling doors and prying windows, peeping through keyholes and opening up manholes. We go up on roofs and down into basements. Some of us even climb down chimneys in the hope of finding a place for us. Finally, we locate our cabin -nothing is ever easy- and lay down our luggage. It is a simple but charming abode, with beds and sheets and every comfort that you could wish for, except for food and drink. There is a delicate scent of sardines in the air. We all sniff our hands and other parts. Bunks are chosen and tested. Pillows are lumpy but adequate. All appears to be in order. We take the children out of their boxes and hold and stroke them a little till they are happy again. Then we stretch out on our respective beds to give them a good run for their money. It is in fact the hour of the siesta, and we are particular about our beauty sleep.

chapter 11 - necessity
We get carried away, of course we do. And soon the sounds of huffing, clicking, teeth grinding and snoring can be heard in our little cabin. We are good at sleeping, we really are, and many a time have been required to sleep in uncomfortable places and under challenging circumstances. Some of us can even sleep standing up. So, sleep we do, moving around in all kinds of weird and improbable dream situations. One of us is rounding up blue horses in a field of green hair, another of us is lost in the bowels of a giant cargo ship and will never find the way back up on deck, while another has gone to work only to find that nobody there recognises her any more. What's the point of dwelling on dreams? We rise, refreshed from our sleep -longer than anticipated, more than the prescribed twenty minutes- and make tea and hors-d'oeuvres of seaweed and lizard eggs. Necessity is the mother of invention. But we must be quick. Time is running on. Soon we have to be in the village square checking and tuning our instruments, and warming up our vocal cords. Such is the life of the artist, and we love it, we really do. There is a great flurry of activity in our little cabin and suddenly the bathroom is in high demand. Bags are unpacked and costumes are flung about the room. Sheets of music, maps, books of poetry, coat hangers, cotton buds and lipstick, … you name it, it's all flying through the air, cluttering up floor and tables. But there is no time for grooming and style right now. We look at the clock, grab our instruments and run out the door. Why is it always later than we imagine it to be?

chapter 12 - clocks tick
Here we are on the run again. Charging down the track, skipping over protruding roots, rocks and ruts, our little caravan trailing a cloud of dust. Snakes and small rodents lie low as we pass. The children are jiggling on our backs, alert and curious. They know what lies up ahead, that there is a gig in the air. They feel it in their strings and pegs, in their posts and bridges, and in the sensitive and seasoned timbers of their bodies. We love the children for this. Where would be without them? We are hot and sweaty and running along the road towards Sant Francesc. The sky has cleared some. Clouds have backed off and loosened up. Rain seems improbable. Our spirits lift. We pass farmhouses and fields of wheat, lonely weeping pines and disgruntled tractors. On and on we go. An old woman straightens up a little to watch us pass. What's the hurry, she calls, we all get there in the end. We stop and look around us. Nothing moves and there are no sounds to hear. No blades of grass twitch or clocks tick. Just the sound of our beating hearts.

chapter 13 - mass
And we all do get there in the end. Don't ask us how or why, but we always do. Call it a gift, a special ability. We waltz into the town square looking slightly soiled and ruffled, shirttails hanging out and shoelaces undone. It is the designated time of our sound-check, so we quickly take in the scene there and evaluate the situation. A few grinning dogs are lying on the paving stones, and grubby-kneed children are up to no good with sticks. The elderly are lined up on benches resting their legs and other parts, and there are some lovers in lazy embraces over by the well. A team of technicians is clambering over the stage and setting up the equipment in what seems to us to be a highly efficient manner: jack to jack, jack to cannon, cannon to cannon. The wind is picking up in a playful yet ominous kind of way, and the sky is wild again with thick and turbulent clouds. We take the children from their boxes, and as I have already mentioned, they are frisky, and on the point of misbehaving. We strum and pluck and rub them a little more to calm their nerves. But then, when we are just about to begin our sound-check an eerie shadow and hush falls over that square, like there is some great dark thing standing over us. The dogs stop grinning, the children lay down their sticks, the lovers untwine their fingers. "A surprise mass has been called," someone whispers in my ear, "to catch the congregation unawares." And a few people do straggle in through that church door, dragging their feet, heads hanging low in resignation.

chapter 14 - animals
We are minstrels and we travel from town to town on our mission. We have ventured far and wide yet never tire of further broadening our horizons. Some of us have been to the Far East and others, the Far West. We have climbed mountains and wandered endless plains. We have been lost in caves. We have been from Edinburgh to Wellington, from Toowoomba to Saskatoon. This is the life we lead, and it is not at all bad, and it does not make us feel consciously over-worldly or big-headed. For the duration of the impromptu mass we set out to discover the delights of this small town. Some head for the boutiques and others in search of provisions. Each to their own. Some are very soon trying on hats and sequined tops, while others are buying vinegar and wine and hunks of cheese; fishing line, hooks, swivels and sinkers; 4-ply linen rope, a spade, fire starters and an extinguisher; grapes and figs and herbal tea. Variety is the spice of life, but we end up with far more than we'll ever be able to carry. Our eyes are sometimes bigger than our wallets. The strongest and tallest of us has an idea and shimmies over a wall. He reappears some time later with a rope over his shoulder and an animal in tow. We cannot be completely sure if it's a donkey or a horse. It has the mange, bad breath, and a touch of wind, along with a curious habit of scratching its foreleg with a hind hoof -unusual in horses and donkeys alike- as if it were a dog. "Is that the best you could do?" one of us asks. Apparently it was won in a game. We shrug and begin to load the poor thing with goods we have accumulated. Such is life.

chapter 15 - a bend in the road
We load up the animal -whatever it is- its legs slipping further apart, its belly bowing under the weight of it all. It turns its head occasionally and gives us an incredulous look. We leave it like that, tied to a post, while we go to the damn, post-impromptu mass sound-check. Sound-checks are generally mundane affairs, and this one is no exception. Let's leave it at that. The evening was wearing on and the sky as dull as unbuffed lead. The day was dimming on that small and uneventful island and night was nearly upon us, along with its logistical puzzles and illogical preoccupations. How on earth were we going to get back to our cabin, don our stage gear and return to the square by nine fifteen? Life can be so unjust, just when you need it not to be. Always the unforeseen. We stand tall as if about to take it all in our stride. No challenge too great. The spirit wells up in us again. We balance the last of our newly acquired goods on the animal's back and make encouraging clicking noises, which in our books mean "come on horse (or donkey), giddy-up." The animal, of course, doesn't move an inch. Instead it curls back its lips to reveal rotten teeth. "Is it smiling?" someone asks. The animal is still and stiff for a moment as it adjusts its innards, then it releases a terrible blast from its other end. As I have previously mentioned, we are city folk, and flatulent animals of this size are not really our thing. Despite this, we eventually manage to lure the creature forwards a step or two with a piece of chocolate (Caribbean Orange Delight), and with the four of us pushing and shoving we get it moving and staggering down the street. It's all in a day's work for us. What we do for our music! We wouldn't trade it for the world. We trot along encouragingly beside this horrible beast, holding our noses. Not for long, though. At the very first bend in the road the animal leaves the bitumen and continues straight on its way, wandering off into a field. It stops and does a kind of twist and shudder, dumping its load on the ground before us. It then drops its head and commences to munch thistles growing here, there and everywhere. Such is life … again.

chapter 16 - songs
We take stock and cut our losses. We leave the animal in the field and hide our goods and chattels in the hollow trunk of a tree. We don't even turn back to take one last look at our disappointment, busy now biting the heads off thistles. We hire bicycles under false names and hurry on our way across the island. When we get back to our little cabin it feels like we've been away for a month. The milk has gone off and the fruit gone soft. There is the inevitable line up for the bathroom again as we make ourselves spic and span for the show. No time for vanilla balm foot massages or cucumber face rubs today. All caution to the wind. We get it all done double-quick and take a photo of ourselves on the porch using the self-timer. Dressed to kill, we are. Take no survivors. There are going to be a lot of broken hearts before the night is out. We stand there on the porch, looking out over the sea. The wind is up and waves crashing in. There is no turning back now. Our own hearts are beating fast -pre-gig nerves- in apprehension about that which is to come. We scribble out the song list; check the keys, the pacing, the wording, the differences and similarities; our songs, our little babies, the ships that we set sailing out into the world. They'll have to fend for themselves out there, to sail on, or sink. We've built them as strong as we can, now we must let them go, set them on their way.

chapter 17 - our extremities
How many times have we crossed this island? We are racing madly again over rocks, ruts and roots, the wheels whirring, mudguards rattling off, pedal cranks whacking the frame. Our scarves, hems and tassels are fraying in the spokes. One of us has a bicycle that has lost its tyre and this one makes a terrible racket on the road and is wreaking havoc with the rider's well-being. Once again, rodents and other small and timid creatures hide in the undergrowth as we pass, eyes wide, breath held. Look at us, … the multi-instrumentalists, pedalling our butts off, our delicate, dexterous fingers gripping the handlebars, these same fingers that pluck and strum, bow, stroke and pick. We play harps with them and hammers, … mandolins, violins, silver flutes and lutes and flugelhorns. One of us is rumoured to be able to play the piano with her feet. Another can imitate birdcalls with his teeth. Surely they can hear us coming for miles. We approach Sant Francesc (again). We approach the stage (again), swooping down like the wing of a spectacular and unexpected storm.

chapter 18 - circles above the square
Above all, on the stage is where we like to be. Call us exhibitionists, escapists, opportunists, anarchists, masochists, … whatever you like, but this is how we are and how we will always be. We impatiently take to the stage and a wave of hush and expectation washes over the crowd gathered in the square. The dark and troubled sky swirls above us and flashes of sheet lightning can be seen in faraway places. The sun is falling to the ground and giving everything its last orange-pink wash. 'Tis a sight for tired and tender eyes alike. We take up our positions on the stage and it is like the deck of a ship, everything tied and battened down and a stiff wind blowing. As I have already mentioned, we are in our best outfits and are looking somewhat spectacular. Some of us bring to mind Errol Flynn and others, Scarlett O'Hara. Plectrums and bows are poised above strings and the stage is rising slightly in the air, in expectation. Everybody is waiting, waiting for us to deliver, waiting for us to inspire and ignite. We strike a chord and the world is already changed. What does it matter if it is "Underworld", or "As Blue As Can Be", or "Wanna Know the Truth". We strike a chord and then another one and the crowd is frozen still before us and flushed in the face. Some have their hands clamped to their heads, others have their eyes shut and are swaying in time. We are simply the pawns in this game as the song comes to life -rearing like an angry horse- and a column of light breaks through the thickened sky, giving us electric blue silhouettes. 'Tis a sight to see. And the stage is turning now and rising up into the air, the four of us braced against the wind and riding it as it lilts and tilts and bucks and rocks and soars in circles above the square.

chapter 19 - coming down
Coming down again is not always easy. We have tried many things; herbal tea, meditation, aromatherapy, black magic and even yoga. We pick ourselves up and gather our scattered things. In our descent watches, coins, trinkets and other accessories have fallen from our pockets and other places. Our hair is a mess and one of us spits out a tooth. We shut the children back in their boxes and they can be heard rattling and banging on the lids to be let out. They'll soon settle down, … dear things. We turn our backs on them and adjourn to the tavern. It is that time of the day, a time for deflation and reflection, a time for massaging our egos and topping up our spirits. We are but human. Looking out the window we see that the blanket of night has fallen all around, enveloping us, there at the bar, elbow to elbow, in this delightful fraternity.

chapter 20 - thoughts, words and deeds
We chink glasses and look into each other's eyes adoringly. This is what we call teamwork; in the great tradition of the Three Musketeers, the Three Stooges, the Three Blind Mice, and other notorious or infamous trios. There are more than three of us, but what does it matter at that time of the night and in that frame of mind? We take this moment of respite to update our diary, this same document that you are now reading. Some of us jot notes on used envelopes with broken pencils and sticks of charcoal, another writes on the back of his hand with quill and ink, and a further one scratches words or hieroglyphics with her fingernail in a ring of whiskey left by her glass on the table. The medium is of no importance. It is the message that counts. And we spend a good deal of time there, scratching and scribbling and scrubbing away, until it dawns on us that it has been a very long day, a very long day with a good few adventures, certain treasures lost and others found, it has been a very long day and we are now hungry. There is no arguing with this hunger of ours. We spring to our feet, fetch the children, sling them over our shoulders and march out into the night.

chapter 21 - the night
The night is all around us. The rattle of our heels on the cobblestones can be heard as we go from door to door in search of sustenance and a place to sit, followed at a distance by a haggle of autograph hunters and thrill seekers. The night has worn on. Waiters and chefs stand in doorways smoking, thinking perhaps of loved ones, or lovely ones or little ones asleep in their beds, as their cigarettes glow gently on and off in the night -dare we say it- like lonely beacons on the sea. We find a tavern with a table and gorge ourselves on leftovers; on mussels and onions, tomatoes and oil and vinegar and wine. Over in the square another group is playing. A dancer is spinning on the stage. We can see her hands curling up and hypnotising the air. We can see the tongues of her hair flashing this way and that. We can hear the stomp of her heels on the boards, the excited beats of an inspired wooden heart. We feast on the night's riches.

chapter 22 - things happen
Things happen. Of course they do. And our serving is generally a mixed bag: the good with the bad. It is not of the utmost importance to explain what we did or did not get up to after we had eaten and gone back to the square. We have told you about the dancer and the overall set and drift of things. We do not write down or remember everything we do. Of course we don't. And as I have mentioned more than once; we are only human and need our time off as much as the next ensemble. The night from then on was not so much a blur as an apparition. Except for one or two lucid and unforgettable moments. The first of these occurred as we were crammed inside a car and homeward bound, speeding towards our cabin. It were late -as we like to say- and it were not a school night -as we also like to say- and if there was a moon it was distant and dim and extremely shy. We were speeding towards our cabin, gathering wool, chewing our cuds and watching the centreline dashes slip beneath us. It all goes by in a flash, … all of it. The landscape of night prowled in the periphery of our vision. Suddenly up ahead there was a cluster of flashing lights, blue and yellow and red, and various glowing batons, making gestures in the dark, signalling us, telling us to pull up, that some kind of mishap or tragedy had occurred. You never can tell till you get right up close, and we were getting closer by the second.

chapter 23 - the doctor
Now we do of course deal in unnatural forces; in gravity and whimsy, in ecstasy and melancholy and non-specific yearning. We can sing like angels and howl like wolves. We are experts in our field and not overly prone to dwell on omens or other superstitious notions. That said, we did however look at each other in a questioning and cautionary way as we got out of the car. There was an unusual mist hanging in the air, enveloping us and the other persons who were there on the scene. It were nearly creepy and we were nearly scared. We glanced at each other and held the children close. But it was not long before we discovered the cause of that strange feeling and the gathering there in the middle of the road. They were all there -representatives of the police force, the fire brigade, a mechanic, an insurance assessor, an ambulance crew, a graphic designer and an electrician, an end-loader operator, a midwife and a vet- standing around, staring down at something and holding their chins. We didn't even need to look. We could smell it as soon as we were out of the car, that ill wind or those rotten teeth it had. Its head was twisted back at a horrible angle, as if still aghast and unbelieving of its messy undoing. There was blood running from its poor broken mouth and its legs were set as if it were engaged in some kind of jig or jump for joy. Behind it was a van, its muzzle smashed in and its lights all broken. The door of the van was open and the driver stood there holding a handkerchief to his head to control the bleeding. The beast on the road was of course the donkey, or horse, or whatever it was that we had taken advantage of earlier that night and that had in return treated us so badly. We did not mention this to anyone, kept our mouths tightly zipped and our noses covered. All and sundry were standing there, scratching their heads. How could they dispose of a beast like that, quickly and simply? A short thickset man in overalls held a cigarette lighter up at the eyes of the van driver, first one and then the other. He had his sleeves rolled up and plaster dust or some other white powder in his hair. He called himself a doctor, and nobody there questioned him about this, so who are we to differ?

chapter 24 - glee
Patience is a virtue. Eventually the broken beast, donkey (or horse) or whatever it is -or better said, was- is dragged from the road on a chain behind the front-end loader. It cuts a considerable swathe through the roadside weeds and a good few metres or more into the field from whence it has no doubt wandered. Killed on a whim, poor stupid thing. No offence meant. We are all equal in the scheme of things, some might say. It's done now. What's the point of pondering? In the meantime, we snap into action. Of course we do. No time to waste. We look about and see the shapes those fat-trunked trees make, reaching up like that to the night sky with their arthritic fingers, … in wonder, at a loss. "Why, how, what for" they seem to be begging right now. But alas, as fate will have it, we realise that it is in one of these very same trees that we have previously hidden our provisions and treats, after the beast had dumped them on the ground. We dissimulate, wandering off a distance as if to relieve our needs in the dark, then quickly we reach down into the hollow trunk and -first shooing off the fuzzy warm rats and clammy toads- we gather up bits of cheese (mysteriously sucked), chocolate bars (nibbled), dried figs and bottles of wine (unscathed), and fill our pockets. What is this? Christmas? Our faces lighting up like lanterns, our silly little hearts beating fast, the wind in our slack sails and pulling at our ropes, we skip and dance back to the roadside, barely able to conceal our glee. The (supposed) doctor is eyeing us suspiciously. Could he have a night job in law enforcement? We pile into the car and spin our wheels, make that road slip and skitter beneath us, all the way home to our little cabin, snuggled up close to a beach, a beach that stretches out in submission, before that deeply beautiful sea.

(No living animals were mistreated or misconstrued in the writing of this scene. All animals appearing are purely fictional. Any resemblance to real animals, living or dead, is unintentional.)

chapter 25 - our agenda
That deeply beautiful sea. … When we get out of the car the wind is whipping in over the littoral shrubs and rattling in the palms. What a beautiful feel it has. How warm it is, coming in uninhibited off the wholesome sea. "What delicious air," one of us says as our boots crunch over the gravel. We are pleasantly tired and ever so glad to be back in this temporary home of ours. I suppose you can imagine what life on the road is like, that at this stage in the proceedings, at that time of night, professionals like us make an orderly queue at the bathroom door and one by one brush our teeth, splash water on our faces, unfold our pyjamas, eyeshades and travelling slippers and shuffle off to bed where we fall instantly and willingly into the gorgeous arms of sleep. Perhaps normal simple folk would. But we are abnormal simple folk and we have an entirely different and seemingly endless agenda. Some of us sit out on the porch and let the wind do our thinking, busy in the trees. Others of us are de-corking bottles (no corkscrew), brewing coffee and boiling water for tea. It seems that there is no end to our thirst for brews and beverages. We sometimes refer to this as "the thirst". There is a considerable amount of thumping and clatter as drawers are opened and closed, heads banged on cupboard doors, spoons are dropped and crockery chipped. Then, lo and behold, four corncob pipes come to light and so we fetch more seaweed from the littoral zone and shake it free of salt. We pack our pipes with this and sit out on that porch there smoking and sipping thimbles of wine (there are no glasses). What a perfect day and perfect night it is being. The sky is not black and there are no stars to gaze at. So we sit there and tell stories. We spin tales. We listen, we speak, we laugh. Sometimes we even shed an unexpected tear. The endless wind is coming in off the deeply beautiful sea, and sooner or later that is all there is to be heard, that and the gentle creak of four sleeping figures rocking in their chairs.

chapter 26 - bewilderment
We come in different shapes and sizes, with different ways and tastes, displaying different airs and graces. And this is the secret to our success; harmonious incompatibility. (Scientists have been studying us for years and trying to reproduce our resonance and dissonance under laboratory conditions.) Some of us get out of the bed one way, and others, another. Some of us stand in the middle of the little cabin scratching our heads, while others wander out to the porch, squinting into the bright and bewildering new day. Others of us are still flirting with sleep, lying tangled in the sheets until breakfast has stopped being talk and begun to be a reality. And really, it must be said that in the morning some of us aren't as pretty as others. However, on the other hand, none of us are as pretty as we were the night before. But what does prettiness matter at this time of day? We are immersed in improvisation. With a spoon and a fork we manage to slice cheese, grate tomatoes and scramble lizard eggs. We break bread into chunks and squeeze them into the toaster, holding them in there with old wooden pegs and a broken broomstick. With a pinch of salt, a sprinkle of pepper, and a generous serving of imagination, breakfast is soon on the table, coffee is poured and inevitably spilled, and we know that we have successfully embarked once more, have pushed our little boats out once more onto the expanse of this ripening day.

chapter 27 - the wind on the sea
We gather our strength. Later in the day we have our next performance. It is to be held in a marquee in a forest, or scrubland, or perhaps in wetlands of particular importance and environmental interest. We have instructions to get there but no map. It has never stopped us before and it won't stop us now, we are convinced of that. So, we sit on the porch well pleased with ourselves and with the breakfast we have invented and just ingested. As is often the way in the morning, conversation comes and goes in spits and spats -dare we say it- like bits and pieces of half familiar things floating down a stream. Do not ask us to justify the use of "spits" and "spats" in this instance because we are but simple folk and do not ponder such questions. Delete and replace with "dribs" and "drabs" if you prefer. This is merely a diary, a log for our own personal use. We do not jot these thoughts down and report these deeds with half an eye on literary prizes. This is not a race. It is morning and our thoughts wander. We let them go and only occasionally call them in, before they stray too far afield. And when there is a lull in the conversation -if that is what you would call it- we sit there like Buddhist monks, staring out at the sea. We are simple folk and often find its attraction impossible to ignore. We have mentioned this before and undoubtedly we will mention it again. It is beyond our control. And there it always is: the colour of slate, the horizon straight and sharp as steel. It is thick and dark with anticipation at the edge where it meets the sky. Yesterday's sea was blurred, like a ploughed field, troubled by the wind. And the day before that it was as smooth and sensitive as skin, drawing up in goose bumps where the wind blew on it playfully, like a lover.

chapter 28 - life on earth
Time marches on regardless. It catches us unawares yet again. Where on earth did those hours go? Turn your back on them for a minute and the run off with all the gear; hook, line and sinker, rod and reel. That's the last we'll see of them. It's already late again. We have been dawdling. It is a thing that we like to do. But now we must crack the whip, get everything shipshape and she-worthy. The children are out of their boxes, lying on beds and leaning in corners. Our goods and chattels are approaching chaos. Everything goes its own way, if you let it. But now we have work to do. We stuff the children into their boxes and throw on any old clothes. It's going to be one of those days. We run across the porch and clatter down the stairs, in odd shoes and with undone hair. Some of us are wearing the other one's clothes. Shirt tails are out, collars crooked, and there is even a fly undone. No time to spare. We are professionals and we get the job done, any which way we can. The car from the previous night is there waiting. Don't ask us where that car came from or where it will eventually go. We are dealing with the here and now, and right now we are piling into a car, on the way to a gig, the children sitting up excitedly in our laps. What other thing is ever better than that?

chapter 29 - this uneven road
We like to do things. We really do. We like making and doing. We scratch plans in the dirt with sticks. We dig holes and then fill them again. We tend gardens, then cut it all back with relish when the time comes. We write songs, then leave them in hotel drawers, in the seat pockets of planes, or in our own pockets then put them in the wash. It's all the same to us. We can't keep still. We like to go places. We like to see the world winding past, … as if we are not really part of it. We like the view around the next bend and -looking over our shoulders- to see where we have been. Up and over the hill we go in the rattling car. The road uneven, eroded, uncaring, irresponsible, unpredictable. We do the best we can to avoid rut and ridge alike, come to the flatter ground and hit our pace. The dust trails off behind us, … our wake, rising into the morning air, drifting off through the trees. The wheels are spinning fast now, carrying us on our way. When we get there, who will be waiting for us? Will there be two, twelve, two thousand? Will there be plumbers and politicians, doctors and drifters, children, the big-headed or the broken-hearted? Will there be any animals waiting for us, tapping their hooves and flicking their tails in time? It always is a mystery. And that is the beauty of it all.

chapter 30 - get lost
Anyway, we are in such a hurry to get there, that we get lost. Each turn we take looks promising at first, but soon evaporates before us, becomes just a goat track that we cannot follow. We squeeze the little car between low stone walls, we cut a swathe across fields of wheat. We drive along riverbeds and pass ancient turrets and wells and tumbling windmills. Finally, we pull up in desperation where the road branches off in five or six different directions. Which one to take? The children are all wide-eyed waiting for someone to answer. Nobody says a word. One of us wanders off into a field, looking for bearings. As he is sitting on the ground -among the wheat- a large rabbit comes up to him and sets itself down, staring intently and twitching its velvety nose. It opens its mouth to speak.

chapter 31 - letting go
Of course, it does not speak. It merely looks as if it is about to, staring like that with its large shining eye. It only has one left. Truth is, this rabbit has been around. It is rich with experience, has a fat and over-spilling file. Rabbit? It's more likely a hare. It's the size of a tailless dog but with long unruly ears, scarred and with a decent infestation of fleas, ticks and other itchy things. More buckshot than bones, this hare is a leftover, a survivor, a barnacle on the earth, a hanger-on. It sits there staring now, with its one golden and long-lashed eye. And in that eye one can see oneself reflected, along with the field of wheat, the car waiting on the road, the outline of the island and a considerable amount of sea. It's this kind of eye that the hare has. Back at the car the windows are open and arms and legs are hanging out on account of the humidity and heat. The sun is high, though the sky is tight with cloud. Looking closely into that hare's eye one can see where one has been and where one must go. One leans forward towards it, closer and closer, to get a better look. Is he going to kiss it? It him? At that very moment the hare uncrosses its paws, readjusts its mouth and begins to hum. It is not a simple song or melody, and the hare has a surprisingly warm baritone voice, timbre of expensive brandy, experienced Cyprus pine, cedar wood smoke, whatever that is like. It takes another breath and hums this melody that will not be easily forgotten, but that on the other hand, is not easy to recall. Haunting. It will be conjured up, called on, begged for unsuccessfully many a time. The one out there in the field waits and waits till the hare is long gone, and the song with it. Is he wondering if this worn but enigmatic animal ever really existed? The ears of wheat are swaying gently in the midday glare. The sky is low and tightly packed. Something makes it slip, release its grip, let go, shedding the odd unexpected tear, and rainily perfumed drop.

chapter 32 - shot bearings
Oh yes, those rainily perfumed drops, cracking open on the ground and releasing their scent of melancholy and joy. That is the only sound that can be heard, in fact, the pit-a-pat of rain on ground. Back at the car the rest of the ensemble has fallen asleep. Never missing an opportunity to catch up on something owing, they've tucked their heads under their wings and grabbed a little shut-eye, dear things. Who could blame them? Lordy knows they deserve it. As luck will have it, one of us is awake and has stared into that animal's golden but bloodshot eye. One of us has heard the hare hum and managed to get his bearings. All is not lost. He twists the key in the ignition hole and the car shivers and rattles into life. He releases the handbrake and inches and edges onto the road again, and in a moment that car is scooting across the island like an old tin rocket, trailing behind it a makeshift plume of dust.

chapter 33 - our curriculum
And like the hare, we have been around. We have played at weddings and divorces, births and burials, in warehouses and strip joints, from opera houses to outhouses, in basements and bus stops. We've done it all. Call it bragging if you like. We are just trying to keep track. We are simple folk and this is what we try to do. We keep calling-cards in our bra-straps and defunct bank notes as bookmarks. We have locks of hair in our lockets and the teeth of our loved ones around our necks. We scratch the days off on the wall. We could conceivably obtain jobs in museums and libraries if we wanted to. But we do not want to. And this not wanting to do things is at times what we value most. We get to the part of the island that we are aiming for. It is barren and wild, with leaning twisting trees and mean angry scrub. We know that we have arrived because a) we have come to the end of the road, and b) we see a shirtless, shoeless man sitting at the roadside in a folding chair under a beach umbrella. He is reading a newspaper from the previous year. He takes one look at us and says, "straight on, fifty yards or so". Clearly time and space have distorted somewhat since we have been on this island, as we walk a good thirty minutes or more and at a brisk pace and only then do we hear scraps of voices coming to us from under the flaps of a circus marquee. We quicken our pace and come through the trees just as the sky bursts into tear once more. There is nothing like running for cover from impending deluge, especially when you can see exactly where there is shelter from the storm.

chapter 34 - where the trees walk downhill
The trees appear to walk downhill, to discreetly turn to watch us pass. Some raise their branches so that we can walk beneath them. These branches wave about in the air like snakes when we turn our backs. It's being one of those days. Let's not go on about it too much. Let's leave it at that and not dwell excessively on the supernatural. As we get to the clearing we see the marquee for the first time, glowing in that mid-overcast-day glare. Around the marquee there are numerous sculptures, or games, or over-sized toys made out of welded and strangely wedded junk; a bedpan and an S-bend, a garden fork and bicycle seat, a car spring and a colander, a TV tube and a toothbrush. You name it, it's here with a hole drilled into it, on a piece of string, or sporting a bolt or a screw. We review this enigmatic landscape and pause a moment, perhaps thinking of our own makeshift nature. Some of us are wearing false eyelashes, others have screwed in teeth. There is rumoured to be a glass eye in the group, and further than that we do not want to delve. Here in this junkyard playground there are ropes to tug on and handles to turn. There are lamps to rub and roller coasters to ride. The children immediately perk up. They are tugging at their straps to get off our backs and go play. Alas, it is time for us to set up our stage, our shiny little show. Practically time to start on our set of songs. And we know that we are not going to dwell on the supernatural, but there is the image of that damn hare, sitting there. There is the spectre of its song lingering on, … that infuriatingly warm and velvety tone, the seductive beckoning come-with-me tune. There is the sudden smell of cinnamon, linseed oil and lightning in the air. And the air is as still, as still, as still as can be. Inert but alert, … and (once more) the day has only just begun.

chapter 35 - metamorphosis
And if it is true that a butterfly, in the last leg of its life, lives for just one day, carefree, happy and fulfilled -we imagine- then we must find solace in that. But we are not scientific types and though we do have a certain curiosity in biology, entomology and meteorology, etc, we do not boast about our extensive, in-depth knowledge. That is to say, the butterfly perhaps lives for a week, or even a month for all we know, but the idea of it living just one day suits us better just now. Imagine it, beating its papery wings, beating its life away all day long, its one and only day, meeting just one other of its kind and having a unique and earth-shattering communion with the same before setting down on a fence rail and watching the only sunset that it will ever see, before giving up possession of its throwaway body and spinning to the ground like a shed leaf. … It is midday, humid and raining, and our minds are at present somewhat clouded or fogged, so do not ask us where this is leading, this talk of the butterfly. It could somehow be connected with the performance, with the unique and short-lived qualities that has, something as fragile and potent as a butterfly. We are standing there at the entrance to the marquee, bedraggled, un-ironed, dishevelled (some of us), disorientated (others), looking at the stage and contemplating our next great adventure.

chapter 36 - all dressed up and nowhere to go
… to tell the truth, we don't always tell the truth. What would be the point of that? At times we prefer to deal in otherness. Hence this whole song business. Let's face it, a song is generally a sham, a feigned thing, an imposture, a pretence, a humbug, … innit? You can't fix anything with one, or build anything on top of one, or use one to cure cancer. Songs are out there with wishes and dreams, grazing in the same paddock. So, what on earth are we doing here? We are standing at the entrance to the marquee, drawing our beards and braids through our hands and contemplating contradictions in our existence. Because, you see, … what about when the songs well up inside us and interfere with our bodily functions? Are we to ignore this? (More fondling of hair in hands. Some of us look up, others look down.) It is too early for such demanding questions. We stand at the entrance to the marquee and instead, look around for a bite to eat and something to drink. We are simple folk and this is what we sometimes need. Nothing more, … for the moment. We are sometimes this easy to satisfy. Sometimes not. The marquee is mostly empty. What did you expect? Tigers? Lions with whips coaxing tamers up on chairs? A chorus line of pink poodles in tutus? A cage full of tarantulas in tuxedos? Who knows what we expected. We stand in the entrance. People inside stop what they are doing. Everybody looks at everybody.

chapter 37 - love
Everybody gives everybody the once over. Everything in order here. There is promise in the air. The stage is somehow incomplete, however. Speakers are there, microphones are there, but the leads that connect all the pieces together appear to be missing, absent without leave, in some other corner of the island. "They'll turn up some time," someone says. We shrug and take the instruments, the children, from their boxes. We hold them lovingly, feeling again their lightness and vulnerability. Our fingers love them and they love our fingers. They come to life in our hands, and we come to life with them in our arms. And when we have them in our arms and are playing there together, it is like we are drifting closely in the same stream, like we are struck through by the same bolt of lightning, tarred with the same brush, … or some such thing.

chapter 38 - we are not alone
Tarred with the same brush. Twisted round the same fork. Spilling from the same spoon. Our mouths water, our stomachs gurgle. We are suddenly all liquid. Over at the back of the marquee bottles are uncorked. Salads are dressed, and tarts sliced into bite-sized rectangles. This one is of oven-baked onion, that one is covered in grilled peppers, thistles and other colourful things that we cannot identify. It looks somewhat like hare fare, but we are tempted just the same. One must eat. One must drink. But let's not get everything out of order. First there is the sound-check to do. The missing leads arrive. We are plugged in. We dust off our boots, adjust our straps and do up our flies. We coyly greet the curious who are trickling in out of the rain and taking their seats before us. We play chords. Bow and plectrum on strings, air on vocal cords. Our verses and refrains travel on the air, passing through the marquee walls, flitting through the rain, out across the swampland to where perhaps a rabbit or a hare lies in wait, twitching a highly attentive ear. We are not alone.

chapter 39 - contemplating your button
Is that the doctor over there? From the corner of our eye we see the thickset man in overalls. He still has plaster dust or cement in his hair. Is he scowling or smiling? We are momentarily bemused, as we last caught a glimpse of this man in this very same state back in chapter 23. An enigma. The marquee is filling up as people come in from the swampland and seek refuge from the rain. Some are carrying children on their shoulders, others carry chickens. Some have rakes in their hands, others have picks and axes. One has a bow and arrow. Their boots and trousers are muddy. We begin to play -in serious this time- taking each song by the scruff of the neck and giving it a good throttling. Some of the audience are aghast, others amused. One or two are asleep (through no fault of our own). We look for the doctor again but he has disappeared. Has he left on a house call? Where is the man with the axe? There is little opportunity to fully track or register the comings and goings in the audience. In our second song a guitar string snaps. It whizzes out at the audience. All those in the front row duck. We continue playing. In the third song another string snaps. This one whips the stage and we all jump into the air. We continue playing. The crowd gasp. In the fourth song a gust of wind blows the scenery over behind us. We jump to the side and continue playing. One of us does a somersault -and continues playing. The audience are on their feet. Some are clapping. In the fifth song a flash of light momentarily spreads across the marquee wall and there is the smell of smoke in the air. The generator is down and the power soon drains out of our amplifiers. We continue playing, singing at the top of our voices and from the bottom of our hearts, playing on the few strings we have left. The music reaches an acoustic crescendo. The crowd are leaning forward, not missing a thing, and we do not miss a beat or drop a stitch. On the final note a button pops off one of our shirts. It dances. It spins and rattles on the stage in front of us before coming to rest. Everyone stares at the button.

chapter 40 - don't interrupt
And when you are not appreciated, does it trouble you?

Of course it does. We fall into deep depression. We tear out our hair and pace the room day and night sobbing at the moon: "Why? Why? Why us? Why do they not like us?" We chain smoke and get into bondage and group sex. We stare at the television for days on end until we are incapable of remembering our own names, let alone our social security numbers. We go off our food and live on just ether and alcohol and air. We forget entirely what we are here for. We even take up sport, in case that will help.

And does this happen often?

I'll tell you this much. We do not tell the truth. It is our trade, our affliction, and it serves us very well. We are standing there staring down at a frigging button, as if it actually means something. We do not like interruptions and we are being interrupted. Two comedians run into the marquee and start prancing round, coercing the crowd using threats and promises. The comedians -both women- are wearing the standard tuxedo, striped-socked, top-hatted apparel. Fortunately they have Dolores with them, Dolores the amazing doll puppet with the turned round head. Dolores quickly begins her routine; scaling chairs, walking an invisible tightrope and even running down it with her head turned round the wrong way -facing the same direction as her butt. Try it some time, if you think it's easy. And then there is a strung up goat, shaggy as a dog, and doing that improbable puppet jiggle in the air that passes for "walk". It's the size of a Scotch terrier and has a name like Errol or Edward. The crowd, of course, does love to be distracted. And the fact is, the goat is performing admirable feats. It does a loop de loop, and other leaps of unimaginable proportion, before collapsing on the ground, perhaps from exhaustion, perhaps with cardiac arrest. The fretting puppeteers give the poor wooden thing mouth to mouth and mouth to nose, finally bringing it back to life once more -if that's what you can call it- amidst the cheers and clapping of the crowd. The point of all this being that, … it is time for us to stand at the back on our tiptoes, to enjoy a plastic cup of wine and a morsel of food. Every dog has its day. We take a back seat.

And do you miss the stage when you are not on it?

Terribly. Like a sail misses the wind, like the flotsam misses the jetsam, like the tiller misses the hand that guides it.

And what does all this mean?

chapter 41 - that bloody moon
All in all it's being a successful morn. We can say that. We can say whatever we like. That's the beauty of this. Rain has stopped falling over Ses Salines, cloud cover has withdrawn to the heights, tightened and solidified. Midday glare imposes once more. We adjourn to the exterior for a breath of fresh air and to top up our body fluids. Tis thirsty work. Many a one is waiting there to share a word with us, to hand us a token or souvenir to autograph: a festival poster, a newspaper clipping, an item of underwear, a body part. It's all the same to us. We'll sign anything. We have more than enough pride and no shame. The young and old alike are here, the pimply and the pale, the bare-foot, the well-heeled, the calm and the crazy. One has a lampshade on his head, another a Homburg on top of a wig. Sitting in the front row there was an old woman in a church hat with a bible in her lap. Children have come, on the backs of bicycles, tender feet dangling a safe distance from the spokes, clinging on to daddy's back. Someone has come in a Jaguar. There is a wheelchair with a flat tyre halfway down the track -occupant missing. Over in the trees we see that ruddy moon of a face duck down out of the way. There he is, the doctor, pretending to be invisible, suddenly with some pressing need to peer at something on the ground. Is he following us or are we following him? We decide on a policy. We ignore him. A camera is pulled from its case and we embark on a photo session in one of those lanky-limbed trees. We take it in turns to climb up and pose, reclining along a bough, legs wrapped round the trunk. Look at us: Miss March and Mr September, tongue-in-cheek come-thither looks, fingers beckoning. Who knows, a photo like this could go on a calendar, or even a biscuit tin. The previous day a whole orchestra posed in this tree; string section along one branch, brass and woodwind along another, conductor up in the crown, holding on for dear life, sheet music scattering on the breeze. It is indeed at times a wonderful life. It really is. We pack up our things and do the same. We scatter on the breeze, wherever it will next carry us. Not a thought for word order or meaning. We head off along the track. We have no plan or destination. We are free. The tide is draining from the salt-flats, waxing or waning or whatever tides do at that time of day. Ebbing away, going with the moon.

chapter 42 - come
Having filled all contractual obligations for the day we kick off our boots and let down our hair. We take it in turns at the wheel. What have we got to lose? One steers, one does the accelerator and another the clutch and brake. The fourth sits in the back giving directions, … or telling jokes, it is not always that clear which. Whatever. What a lark this is, a team effort. All hands on the Ouiji board, all feet on pedals. The worn and bumpy road rocks us every which way. Time sucks us along. It's a real test, it really is. And we come through with flying colours, of course. Isn't that just like us? And going home is always easier than getting there, and takes less time too. We know this coz we have done extensive research on the matter, none of which has been published as yet and probably never will be. There is nothing magic about being published. It does not make a thing righter, or better. So don't work long nights towards this end. Don't waste electricity and ink. Don't neglect your health, family and friends, lost in artistic endeavour. Forget it. Tis nothing but smoke and deception. Believe us. We have been there and seen it with our own eyes, felt it with our own hands and rubbed our own noses in it. Look at us, unpublished, free of contractual obligations for the day. We are not answering phone calls or fretting over what we have or have not done. We are not busy listing the things we will never be able to do. We are not kicking ourselves over things we did do but shouldn't have. Are you not envious of us? Join our merry band, if that's what you want to do. We ain't going to be waiting here forever in this road-weary car. What are you waiting for? The motor's running like a sewing machine, wheels going round and round, road unwinding. The ropes are tugging at the mooring. Sails are filled and boiler's stoked. There's a fresh loaf in the oven. Larder's full. Fruit's ripe for picking. Eyes closed, lips puckered. Plane at the end of the runway. Fuse lit, etc, etc. Come.

chapter 43 - taking turns
We do not wish to give the wrong impression. Heavens forbid. Please tell us if we do. We value your opinion highly. Please fill out the attached form and return -postage paid. Write it on a wall. Scratch it on a toilet door. Hire a fucking skywriter. We value your opinion highly, and are not arrogant and self-absorbed. We are as sensitive as kittens. We register the slightest of fluctuations in humidity and room temperature. The sound of a pin dropping can be deafening to us. We are loving and caring and regret it if we have given an impression to the contrary. We did not mean to go on like that in chapter 42 about the pointlessness of publishing. Some of our dearest friends are published and we wish them all the best, we really do, from the bottom of our wells. It was not our intention to get up on our high horses, not our intention at all. We've all written things down. We've all recorded things for posterity. We've all scratched our names on tabletops and carved obscenities on trees. We've all scribbled in tattered school notebooks. We've all spoken on string and can telephones, hummed into answer machines and recorded our voices on Dictaphones for the hell of it. We've all put our quaint little songs onto cassettes and stayed up all night long hand-drawing covers for the cases. We've all photographed ourselves with Polaroids and manipulated our image with heat and acid. We've all pressed our faces -and other parts- to the glass of photocopy machines. We've all captured out movements on Super 8, and later on video. We've all played our music onto ¼-inch tape and then ½ and later 2-inch. We've all watched the needle cut into the master disc before the vinyl was pressed. And the rest you will know, so what's the point of going on about it? Tis all history now and let's not dwell too much on things made and done, or fun had. We are sensitive things and that can bore us, can tire us terribly making our yawns sound more like shrieks of pain. We are simple, sensitive folk, doing our very best to keep the car on the road, "the road ahead", some might say. Not us. We just say "the road". We do our best to keep the car on the road, taking turns with the accelerator and the clutch, all hands on the wheel, tugging it this way and that, in the hope that we will take the turns required to carry us back to our cabin by the sea. It is not our home but right now we somehow miss it.

chapter 44 - Where do THEY come from?
Tell us, we would really like to know. As this particular journey is taking rather a long time, we adjourn to different corners of the car to do a bit of mental embroidery. It is often at times like these that we feel a song coming on. But do not worry. This is not a musical. We are not going to leap out the windows and tap-dance on the hood. We are not going to burst into song while sliding down the bonnet and doing cartwheels in the fields. No. We are simply wondering to ourselves about those songs. Where do they come from? Do you have to be in the right place at the right time for them to come? Can you prepare the ground, so as to attract them? Can they be cultivated, like penicillin or grass? Do they prefer sweet or savoury, red or white? Some believe that they are the work of elves. Others attribute them to muses. Who is right? There are those who relate them to a special place or even an instrument. A colleague of ours believes that certain guitars are blessed with them, have a limited number of them contained inside, like photos in a camera. Are we limited in the number we can produce? Can you see them inside us if we are X-rayed? Are they like orgasms? Or more like sneezes? Should one practise and train extensively in preparation for them? Or is it better to lie fallow, lie in wait, stalking them in a devious kind of way, like duck shooters in a hide? Are they genetically linked? Do we inherit them? Do they somehow hark back to the caves from whence we came? What came first, the songwriter or the song? Where do those songs come from? And where do they go when they die? Why do some die young and others live to a ripe old age? What are their essential ingredients? Can you pin one down, like a moth, or a butterfly? Do they have an inner life? Do they have a soul? What do they think about us? Do they talk about us behind our backs? Are they really our friends? Or are they just using us?

chapter 45 - what's the matter?
Oh, … what does it matter? What is the point of all this introspection and navel gazing? Why not contemplate some other part? Take your pick. We finally get off that dirt road and back onto bitumen, then off the bitumen and back on to dirt road. Life can be repetitive like that. Yes, we are nearly back at our haven. A non-committal sun burns down through a rice paper sky. The landscape slips by. As previously mentioned, we are free of contractual obligations, as free as birds right now, free as smoke, free as the wind. As we rattle towards our hovel, nobody says a word, and what a pleasure that is at times, to share but not impose. Some would say a luxury. Our business is music; … music, words and noise, but this does not exclude us from savouring relative silence when the mood takes us. And sometimes it does. By the time we get back to the cabin we are plum-tuckered and as quiet as mice. Some are weak-kneed, some pigeon-toed, others carsick. We kick the car doors open and exhale exhaust fumes. Whatever was the matter with mules? There is a loud hissing coming from under the bonnet and quite a lot of smoke. Do not worry. It's not our car. We slip on our boots and swagger across the gravel to our little haven, our hovel by the sea. Spirits are high. The day is ours for the taking, ripe for the picking, and it is not a school night. We are going to misbehave. We take a look over our shoulders at the sea. Yes, there it is, as always, full of its industry and wonder. Right now we have no time for industry and wonder. On the contrary, we are contemplating idleness and plunder. No, we are not going to ask further questions about the origin of things. We are ready to spread some of those little green lizards on bread, to brew up a pot of tea and put our feet up for a good while. Perhaps we'll even update our diary, if the mood takes us. Who knows what we'll do. You'll just have to wait and see.

chapter 46 - the mood takes us
Inevitably, one mood or other generally takes us. One has to take the good with the bad, one really does. We update the diary, taking it in turns with the stub of a pencil. We sort words into two piles; those we like and those we don't. We make sentences with the ones we like. In all fairness and truth, it may be noted that we tend to use the words in the ones we like pile too often. Yes, all that tis and it were and we really do, etc. Ho hum. We are not going to lose sleep over this. We do not give a toss and will continue in this way, we really will. We sit on the porch with our feet in the air -some smelly, others not- (it's all a question of character and individuality) nonchalantly ignoring the industrious and wondrous sea. We rock back on our chairs and mutter gibberish and nonsense at each another. It serves little purpose but can divert us at times, like monkeys screeching and jabbering while grooming each other, or birds twittering away at dusk in a tree. The mood takes us. That is all. We take turns with the pencil stub and add to this diary that you are currently reading. Some of us have a need to do this. If we don't do it we can begin to feel quite ill. Others have little use for a word once it is written down. What is the point? Is it not like squashing a butterfly between the pages of a book to get a better look at it? We take delight in differing. We mutually admire our incongruence, how some of us have toes that point in and others that point out, how some of us have large and pointed ears and others small round ones, like elegant knobs on a drawer. We take turns with the pencil stub. The lead wears down to the wood. We scratch holes in the paper. Where on Earth are we going to find a bottle big enough to stuff this into? Who is going to do the honours and toss it into the sea? Where will it travel to? What course will it take? Will someone pick it up in Korea, or Queensland, or will it be in Canada? Or could it be swallowed by a whale? Some say it is the process that matters, not the product. You know, it's the thought that counts. And we do not know where this is all leading. For the time being we are happy to be walking this eventful way, for better or for worse, navigating this uneven line.

chapter 47 - a real good time
It is of the utmost importance to unwind. Are you tied up in knots? Bending over backwards to see which way is down, what is left, what you've got? Are you twisted and turned in on yourself? Are you haunted by your very own kind, hounded by the sound of your own voice? Is your wiring buzzing and burning through its insulation? Has your wick lost its pluck and wherewithal? Are you washed up with the dishes, hopes dashed, broken wishes? Is your spring unsprung, your dash seemingly done? Has the buzz fallen from your wings, the tock dulled in your ticker? Have you lost your shine? Don't know what to do with your time? Are you out of sorts and out of tune? Do you spend the night staring at the moon, and when it's gone, it's too soon? Do you listen for sirens in the night, yearning after the sight of a house burning? Do you lie awake and only hear the cogs turning? What you need my friend is to unbend. It is of the utmost importance to unwind. We are about to have a real good time.

chapter 48 - ready, steady, gone
We dress in our Sunday best, spit and polish our boots. We admire ourselves in mirrors and sharpen our knives. Our frantic little fingers mess with our unruly hair. We put the children in their boxes and stand them in a corner, not in the way of punishment but to stop them falling over. We count out our coins once more (despairingly) and stuff our purses into pockets. We touch up our lipstick and other decorative additions then stand there on the porch like the world is ours for the taking, fresh as frigging roses. The sea looks at us admiringly. The moon is clearly taken aback and ducks behind a passing cloud. We slide down the handrail and attempt to kick start the car. Its wheels are leaning at an alarming angle. We crank the handle at propeller speed. Stop, clean its sparkplugs and wiggle its leads. We top up all lubricants and bang the air filter like a tambourine. Dust fills the air. We blow encouragingly into the battery cells. We think magic thoughts and say magic words, we cross our fingers and cross our toes. We rub the side of the car like we expect a genie to pour out through the radiator grill, we pat the thing like it is a an animal with a heart and soul. We coax and coddle it. We push the damn thing up the frigging hill and down again, and lo and behold, a cloud of blue smoke rises from its tail. We dive in through the windows and take the controls. We are on the road once more, and gone, gone, gone.

chapter 49 - unison
A cloud of grey dust and blue smoke hangs in the air. We can see it in our rear-view mirror; our recent past, the wake we are making and trailing behind us. It is not our intention to go on and on about the sea ad nauseam, however, we cannot help but notice that right now it has the texture of chiselled glass and is the colour of blueberries. More-seafaring folk than us would no doubt draw conclusions from such an observation. But alas, we are simple ensemble folk, trades-people, electricians, plumbers and plasterers of the heart. We stick to our patch and simply look in the mirror at a deeply mauve or lavender sea -it changes every instant- and the rather unsightly cloud we are leaving behind. Do we have to stain the air so? We imagine we do. We finger our tattoos and begin to hum in unison. At times there is nothing like unison, to warm the heart and soothe the mind, a sheath of reeds being infinitely stronger than a solitary reed. We look ahead. Safety in numbers. In the numb grey dusk we feel electricity.

chapter 50 - premature ejaculation
Everything is relative. Everything is state of mind. Have we started now to have a really good time? Some of us have and others haven't. Unison is best taken in small doses. We drive to the centre of the island and pull up outside an inn. There are many vehicles parked there and on seeing them, ours pops off a wheel and drops to the ground, as if in submission. We suspect exhaustion, a massive breakdown. We are not having luck with transport (see chapters 15 and 16). We are, however, unperturbed, preferring to have luck in other things. Walking up the drive we are greeted by our admirers, the crew, members of other ensembles. Some saw us soaring on the stage in Sant Francesc, others were there in the marquee this morning. Some saw us up to no good in the snake-branched tree. Whatever. This is what we are like. What's the point of hiding it? We are a picture of charm and elegance as we glide towards the inn patio, where a rather large and impressive banquet awaits us. Our mothers would probably agree, we have not been eating properly lately. We are rather hungry. Cameras and smiles are flashing, hands waving. We press our lips together and smile to avoid premature saliva ejaculation. Oh yes, first a good meal and then, … well … we never really know.

chapter 51 - table manners
We take our place at table. You can probably imagine the scene: tables and chairs hewn from logs of pine and oak, candles flittering against the dark, large vases of lilies, lilac and rhododendrons. Or is it rhubarb? We simply enjoy words beginning in "rh". Hand-woven cloths are placed diagonally, enticingly revealing wood grain at the corners of each table, napkins pressed and pure and perfect, cutlery glimmering and glinting with twilight and moonshine, bunches of ripening grapes dangling overhead from a blanket of lush vine, a nightingale somewhere out there clearing its throat, the flutter of moth wings caressing the night air, a solitary cricket's merry chirp, bowls of apples and plates of figs and sheep cheese, earthenware dishes as large as wagon wheels and boasting exotic fungi in almond and truffle sauce, massaged rabbit bathed in brandy and chocolate, tantalized rice puffed up with spices and pride, exuberance as far as the eye can see. We think you can imagine it. We take our place at table, then come and go, drifting about, mixing up the serving spoons with our own, eyes as big as plates, bigger than our tummies. We fill our dishes. Return to table again. Napkins are tucked in. Forks poised. Lips licked and smacked. Tummies rumbled.

#1: What is that, animal or vegetable?
#2: It's delicious, what do I care.
#3: Who's wobbling the table?
#4: You going to say grace?
#1: Grace.
#2: Mind if I eat with my hands?
#3: Get your elbow out of my face.
#4: Just filling our own glass, are we?
#1: Whatever.
#2: What do we do with the bones?
#3: Don't eat with your mouth full.
#1: Huh?
#3: Speak, I mean.
#1: Speak you mean?
#2: Will whoever is wobbling the table please stop.
#3: Inevitable.
#4: Inedible?
#1: Cup's empty again. Please fill.
#2: Filled and spilled.
#3: A toast?
#4: No thanks.
#1: What do you call that?
#2: Dessert.
#3: Already?
#4: I'm hungry.
#1: Scuse me while I unbuckle belt.
#2: Do you have to take off your boots as well?
#3: A toast?
#2: You gonna eat with your feet now?
#4: What's that smell?
#1: Necessity.
#2: Why is everyone looking at us like that?
#3: Envy.
#4: Wine?
#1: Wine not?
#2: It's wobbling again.
#3: Take that!

A bread roll is finally placed under the offending leg.

#1, 2, 3 and 4: Finally!

chapter 52 - from here to anywhere
Cross our hearts and hope to die. We sit back on our stools, digress and digest. Now, how long do we have to wait before we immerse ourselves in this night? Is it thirty minutes or sixty? Or is it three hours? Opinions vary. We are wary. We do not want to risk accidental death, drown out there in that black sea of mystery. We do not want to risk stomach pains and cramp. We do not want to sink like stones. We want to shoot this way and that like sharp incisive fish, flashing and cutting through their element. We get up off our stools, pull up our chests and tuck in our lower regions. We swagger out to the garden as if we are on a frigging Sunday stroll. One or two of us are not leaning at quite the correct angle, but we will not go into that. We sit on a stone wall and look back at that candlelit scene. What a pretty setting. What delightful people there, drinking and eating. What an agreeable velvety air. What a wonderful world we are living in. It is not a thing to be said lightly and not a thing we say often, or even mumble to ourselves in private. It is not even a thing you would shout out aloud. It is a thing you ponder and appreciate and roll in your fingers like a Cuban cigar. It is a gentle and uplifting and melancholy wind, passing through the grove of quiet hearts. And this is what we feel as we stretch out our legs and reveal our fallen socks and chipped nails. The air is pleasantly cool, the stone cooler. We look up contentedly at the sky, like we're looking on as our children play up there at some ingenious and ingenuous game. We eye others and others eye us and really it is a jungle out here, all vigilant and vibrant and humming with insinuation. This is all very well but there is, however, the question of our next move. We are to move along. We are to go now, further along that road and into town to see this evening's show in the village square, swaying in the dark there with the young at heart and energetic, with the contemplative and neurotic, the good-timers and the old-timers, lovers and the luckless, liars and thieves. Yes, it's all the same to us, for now we are intent on procuring some form of transport to get us there; a car or cart of some kind, anything with wheels, or even legs will do. Though lest not forget, not far down that road the mishap of our donkey still stains the centreline, there with a sad sprinkle of broken headlight glass. Not that we are going to get sentimental and scribble about that old mule. Sentimental is not our thing, and look, just then Shimmy Sands comes up to us and kindly offers us a lift in his ensemble van, riding of course on top of their goods, cargo and instruments. They apparently do not travel light, as we do, are not ready to strike like lightning at anywhere and any time. This is a cumbersome brass and washboard kind of outfit, who are notorious for carrying around with them a six foot length of train track that they bang with a hammer, just for effect. We give Shimmy one of those "this is going to hurt us more than it'll hurt you" looks and climb up into the van. This takes a good deal of time until all and sundry limbs are inside and out of the way. We insinuate ourselves into nooks and crannies. One of us has a foot down the throat of a tuba, another with face pressed to the cleavage of a double bass. It is an uncomfortable affair and we trust that it will not last long. Shimmy slips back his cap and takes to the driver's seat, cigarette glowing in the rear-view mirror poetically. He grates the gears and releases the brake. From here to anywhere.

chapter 53 - if
If we had more time, we'd use it wisely, we really would. We'd learn languages, do charity work, even learn to iron. We'd learn to play some of these instruments we are lying on; this dinted bugle, that warped balalaika and bent Jew's harp, … the clavinet whose legs are digging into our ribs. We'd write letters to our very best friends and update our memoirs. We'd improve our memories. We'd learn to paint in oils and dabble in copper enamelling and ceramics. We'd read the editorials of newspapers and possibly even vote. Ah, if we had more time, … but alas, we can never have more than what we've got. We have but this one serving, this one hand dealt, this once only ration, lying here with our meters ticking. How long is this going to take? How long does it last? If only we had more time, more time to try all those dishes and read all those books, more time to realise those wishes, to hammer them into shape and polish them till they shimmer and shine. But alas, there is a limit, and we are mere mortals who, in the meantime, like to be touched, who like to be touched and moved. And here we are, nearly touching and moving along, on the way to our next great adventure. Over in the fields the black shapes of night things are plodding and lurking, … as they do. Do we see the ghost of the mule over there, munching on phantom thistles? Perhaps we do. Our bellies are full, our boilers stoked. The van is charging along the road towards Sant Francesc, Sant Frantastic, each of us in a different corner of it and looking in a different direction. Each and every one, resisting the temptation to plod and ponder, to wish and wonder, to wallow, to look out into the night and say: if only.

chapter 54 - sit right here
As luck will have it, the journey is short. We quickly recover from a transitory bout of wishing, folding all epiphanies and stuffing them into our pockets. We reach Sant Francesc and disembark. We gather there on the sidewalk, dusting down our Sunday best and flattening out our hair. Before Shimmy can slam the door shut a mangy kitten pops out of the van and stands before us. Tis a tiny thing, with toothpick legs and a bent tail. Its ribcage is clearly evident, one eye as bright as a button, the other as dull as chalk. We head for the square with the kitten prancing and arching at our heels. Apparently it is not easily dissuaded. We cross the street and back again at a brisk pace in an attempt to lose it along the way. Through the air comes the sound of festival music, hum and feedback. The night's show has already begun. We successfully lose the creature in the crowd. With any luck it'll be trod on there and saved from a life of misery. Sad but true. We are not receptive to strays at this time of night. We rub our hands together, twist our moustaches and move towards the back of the crowd. The stage crew have only just got the equipment working again after our escapades of the night before. (See chapter 18.) How were we to know that this would happen? It was a product of a thermal uplift, as much as it was due to our own propulsive dissonance and assonance. We are not wholly to blame. All the same, we edge our way around the crowd and keep our distance from the crew, not wishing to participate in a scene, in case we are still not welcome here. We search for a vacant table over by the gentle glow of the tavern light. Unfortunately the sky is bruised and in turmoil again with the promise of rain. We cannot say that we have had luck with the weather. But, as already, mentioned, we prefer to have luck in other things. Is that thunder we hear once more? We look to the stage and shake our heads. The microphones are hissing and whining. It is not us up on that stage tonight. Tis certainly a joy to play, but equally so, not play. We are easy to please in this way, flexible, happy with our lot, happy-go-lucky, lucky-go-happy, free-wheeling and easy-going. We roll with the punches and flow with the tide. We pull out some chairs and sit, crossing our legs and folding our arms, only to realise that the person sitting opposite us is none other than the doctor, head tilted and creased with a smile. He is nodding knowingly, as if he knew all along that it was only a question of time before we turned up like this and sat right there.

chapter 55 - our hearts do not sink
Just as we sit down a group at the next table gets up and leaves. They are all rotund, grey-bearded men with ruddy cheeks, wide jaws and unruly hair. Some are wearing shorts and sandals and others are in boots and combat trousers, a pack of Ernest Hemmingways, heading back to their portable typewriters in pension rooms somewhere, setting down to run off a few more pages of The Torrents of Spring, beside them the turmoil of the unmade bed -where once a woman was- an overfull ashtray, and outside the window the infuriating sea. Our hearts do not sink. Had we waited ten seconds more we would not be sharing a table with the doctor and this uneasiness that apparently surrounds him. We would have had a table of our own. We do not look away or blink. The wind is not stolen from our sails. We do not lose our momentum. Why should we? We have nothing to hide. We have open minds. We take a hop, step and a jump. What do we have against this man? Nothing at all. He is merely a figure who -through no fault of his own- has grown in our imaginations, a product of our ruminations, among the misconstrued, a victim, if you like. We nod amiably at the doctor. He returns our greeting and presses his thumb into his cheek, as if to apply pressure there for some kind of medical reason. He is not wearing his dusty overalls tonight, is showered, combed and clean and on his best behaviour. His shoes are polished. Why this change in dress? And this change in attitude? He is smiling so much we suspect facial cramp, ... or madness. We indulge in conversation (of sorts). He nods and smiles, inexplicably tosses his hands around in an "I'll be damned" kind of way. The doctor is clearly hard of hearing. Or is this all just part of his act?

chapter 56 - that suspicious little book
We check our pockets to confirm that we are still in possession of our wallets and purses. … We are. We do a quick needs survey and place our order for drinks. As we do so the doctor notes something down in a pocket-sized notebook. We, in turn, note that he has a pencil stuck behind one ear, a half-smoked cigarette behind the other and a well-chewed toothpick in his mouth. While we wait for our drinks to arrive the doctor asks us some preliminary questions. During the interrogation he stares at the tabletop and deftly takes us for a quick dash through our resumes; …yes, we are from here there and everywhere, one found in a forest living with wolves, another the illegitimate child of an admiral, a mathematician's daughter, a farmer's son. Yes, some worked as architects and others as gravediggers. Been deep-sea welders, wanderers and timewasters. Some were onion diggers and flower cutters, others cabaret stars. Tis indeed a lengthy and convoluted road that has brought us thus far. … Nothing of particular interest there, but here he is again jotting down words in that suspicious little book. Wouldn't you just love to get a look at it?

chapter 57 - delight
Our drinks arrive. We plunge our straws in and draw on them. Delight. On the other side of the square the church is sealed and dark. No interruptive mass anywhere to be seen, no surprise confessions. On stage the show goes on. Ten or more African drummers are up there beating and rubbing and caressing their drums. Some are using their bare hands, other are using sticks that from this distance look like bones. The throbbing of this activity rises up into the night. With it, our spirits rise. We get up out of our chairs, pick up our skirts and do a little jig right there and then among the tables. We dabble in Tango, Paso Doble, Sevillanas and end up doing the frigging Twist. The point being that rising spirits are best not waylaid. You never know how long they're going to last. We break apart and go our separate ways, cruising through the crowd, taking the hands of complete strangers. This too is a delight, taking them by surprise, twirling them round and generally stirring up the pot. But alas, there is renewed clapping of thunder and from the rolling blackness overhead come the first full and perfumed drops of the deluge. This is no heavy dew, no spring shower, no early morning drizzle about to spatter our windshields. Up in the thickness of the cloud someone or something is beating sheet metal. Does this have to happen every night? The rain begins to fall, glittering in the floodlights, smacking on the ground in generous gobs. What a delight. The stage crew are drawing a blue plastic tarpaulin across the stage, over musicians and all. We can see the shapes they make under the plastic. They continue to play. The crowd are climbing onto the stage and crawling under the plastic too. Now someone has grabbed stage lights and taken them under. The blue plastic is lit from within. It's writhing and billowing and filling with rhythm, abandon and empathy, inflating with the joy of it all. … Delight.

chapter 58 - what are they doing in there?
In very little time, all boundaries are blurred. The land is awash in this latest of deluges. A torrent is raging through the square, carrying on its back bags, bins and drums, an upturned umbrella, a table, a lapdog that has lost its grip. There appear to be fish swimming against the current, seeking refuge behind the tavern porch posts. We are not experts on the comings and goings of fish, of salmon and sardines and sole, and in this instance choose not to believe our eyes. We clutch onto each other making a human chain, to draw ourselves along to the safety of the bar. Everyone in that bar is up on chairs and tables, some standing along the bar itself. Tis an unusual scene and nearly brings on a bout of giddiness. We stand on our chair, water spurting up out of our shoes and making rivers through the sawdust on the floor. We have driftwood and a curious kind of weed in our hair. Some makeup has run. The ever-present doctor is there with us of course -dry as a bone (miraculously?)- squinting against the fluorescent light. He has, it seems, taken us under his wing. We stand there, looking out at the world awash, and can just make out the dim blue glow of the tarpaulin on the stage. It is low now, writhing on the stage, with steam twisting from its surface and curling up through the rain. What are they doing in there?

chapter 59 - whatever you do, don't
There is a shortage of chairs, and this is why the four of us (plus the doctor) are standing on just one. The floor is awash with rainwater and sawdust, beer swill and an unsightly substance seeping under the toilet door. It is as if we are joined at the hip, but from there on up, repelling each other and leaning out to a more acceptable distance. (Understandably, at that close range various of our minor faults are visible to the naked eye: blemishes, nicks and scrapes, chafed lips, dandruff, skewed nose hair, fallen arches, etc, etc. We all have something we prefer to keep to ourselves -don't you?) It is not the most comfortable of postures. We wonder how long we can keep it up before we fall apart like a bewildered and bedraggled bloom at the end of its tether. For the moment we take advantage of the situation and give the doctor a good grilling. We question him about his uncanny omnipresence. Is he working undercover? What's with the disguise? He waves his hands in the air -as is his way- in way of explanation. The whole affair is unsurprisingly fruitless. We are about to give up and talk about something else (our backs are killing us), when somebody inadvertently mentions the past. A tense hush suddenly sweeps through the bar. The doctor's eyebrows are up above his hairline. His colour has gone from crimson to purple. We hold our breath (it could be our last).

chapter 60 - not knowing
Is it our imagination, or is the water rising? We go up on tiptoes as a precaution. Can anyone swim? How long can you tread water? We do a quick count of hands. We do not generally like floods or swimming for our lives. This mention of the past appears to have aroused an adverse reaction in the doctor. How were we supposed to know? If only we could quickly kick the sand back over this grievance that we have unearthed. "So doctor, what brought you to these parts?" Tis not an unreasonable thing to ask. Or is the doctor (if that's what he really is) merely upset over our audacity in asking him the questions? Perhaps one day we will find out, we will sit together and fill our glasses, raise them again and again while spilling our hearts. Perhaps we will spill our hearts and all be equal, albeit for a short time, there with our trials and tribulations spread out over the table before us. Perhaps we will become the best of friends. We cannot predict the future. Why would we want to? We do not deal in stocks and shares. Instead, we search the room for our salvation, for some kind of distraction. There it is, of course, at our feet. In the centre of the chair is the upturned face of that frigging kitten. It is staring up at us with such trust and aplomb that one cannot help but take notice. The poor thing is as wet and shiny as a fish, and thinner now than one could ever imagine. It's nothing but black bones. How does its small life get by in such an unsubstantial vessel? It's up on its hind legs, front paw claws drawn and hooked into the doctor's corduroy trousers. It immediately registers our relief and begins to deftly climb in the direction of the doctor's thigh. Tis a fearless mite and has a rather intelligent look in its eye. Does it know something that we do not?

chapter 61 - up on things
Dogs do it. Cats do it. Birds do it. Gerbils and goats do it. Everybody likes to get up on things. The fact remains, we are still here, up on this single chair. As much as we like all this cosiness and caring, you can only have so much of a good thing. Let's face it. How on earth are we going to get down? Jump simultaneously? Fall awkwardly into the muck? We have deft fingers and sharp minds. We have exquisite eyelashes and perfect nails, a sprinkle of wisdom a dash of wit. We know something of aromatherapy and trigonometry, but fat lot of good that's going to do us now. As the drains gurgle and the gutters brim we pause for a moment and reflect. Just what the hell are we doing here? In all due respect, we are tired of being up on this thing. (We have a history of being up on things; … to get to the top shelf, to reach the tap, to peep out the window, to get to the top of the wardrobe and a box of old love letters, to change light bulbs and fill cracks, to paint those bits that nobody every notices, to hang streamers, paint graffiti, defy gravity, etc, etc.) And here we are again, up on a thing, boldly holding on, hanging off each other and defying the rising water. Others in the bar have overturned their tables and are sitting on them, bobbing in the water like boats. Had we known we would've brought paddles. And our dear children? Are they safe and dry? Have they been wakened by the storm? Are they sinking their pretty faces into their warm pillows awaiting our return? It is indeed time to go. Even the fucking cat thinks so.

chapter 62 - occupational hazards
Doctor, … do you have a car?
Yes, I have a car.
Everybody is abandoning this place. Where could they be going?
Well, there's just one place that people go on this island.
Really. How convenient.
Yes.
And what would that place be called?
The Heavenly Star
And where would that place be?
Are, it is not an easy place for you to find. You would need me to take you there.
Doctor.
Yes?
We need you to take us there.
Yes, my friends. We will go there. We will go there in my car.
Doctor.
Yes?
What are we waiting for?
We squeeze the kitten into a jacket pocket. We may need this little fellow later. We balance on one leg and gloat at the world, the lucky ones, the ones going in the doctor's car. Getting off the chair is not so hard after all, simply requiring a little application. We call for volunteers. The long-legged are already standing knee-deep in the water, bearing the shorter and lighter ones on their shoulders. How it is all achieved is quite a mystery, but we somehow manage to make a tower three persons high and another of two and begin to wade across the square. There on the stage the long blue thing is lightless and no longer writhing. Is it asleep? Is it dead? We pass right by, like Frankenstein and his bride heading for higher ground. Vermin and scum are all up on things too, upturned garbage bins and road signs, ornamental plantings, the drunk and the just plain idle. On the count of three we dismount and squeeze cosily into the doctor's car. Tis good to be out of the rain and snuggling up in this modest vehicle. We are relieved to see that there are no trowels, hammers or axes in the car, but on the other hand, neither is there a stethoscope or a thermometer or any free gifts from pharmaceutical companies to be seen. We will have to trust our instincts. The doctor is happy to have us on board, and this probably coincides with his plan perfectly. He can't shut up, waving his hands in the air, starting the car, reversing, forwarding, avoiding obstacles, hitting them, all the while with his head turned to us in the back and his hands barely touching the wheel. The windscreen is completely fogged up, but this does not matter at all because he never looks in that direction. We smile and nod and egg him on, admiring this talent of his to drive without looking. He is so convincing as he goes up curbs, over street signs and across roundabouts that we don't doubt for a minute that this is how one is supposed to drive. Tis like those games we used to play, riding with closed eyes closed, counting how far we could get before smacking into obstacles. That was then. This is now. There is a lighthouse on the extremities of this island, blinking warning and hope to faraway things, faraway things that are both relieved and at the same time chilled to see it. There is danger and there is land. Right now we are cutting our wake on this small shard of land, taillights bleeding into the rain and fog. Above us is the impenetrable overcast cover and above that perhaps a moon glowing bright over a turbulent sea of cloud, and above that, … already too far, too difficult for us to comprehend. Call us shallow, short-sighted. Call us pleasure seekers. We are simple folk who just want to get to where we are going, more than enough, on a night like this, interested now in the product and not the process. How fickle we are. How absolutely human.

chapter 63 - making do
The space is far too small to park in but we park there anyway, any-old-how. This is the beauty of improvisation, the beauty of imprecision, happy accidents, games of chance, making do. We get out of the car, unbend and unwind, heads in the air, compasses still spinning. We'll have to follow our noses, play our hunches, fall back on primordial inklings. Tis midnight, the hour when some are bedding down while others are stepping out, some in the clutches of their dreams, others out there chasing them, the time when some flowers unfurl while others unravel and drop to the ground, when bats unfold their wings and drop their moorings, taking to the cool night air in search of prey. The drip of a gutter on paving stone, the brush of fog on facades and roof tiles or simply lingering there at the end of the street. Don't look back. There ahead, the warming glow of the Heavenly Star.

chapter 64 - our lot
Into the Heavenly Star we step. Tis surely a popular destination. We are obliged to push and shove to make our way, to forge and maintain a place to be. All hands on deck. The cat has leapt out of the pocket and has its face in a dish of complimentary nuts, its bent aerial sticking into the air, in appreciation. Tis a simple and amenable beast. We will have to give it a name. In the meantime we rub our pennies together, as if by some miracle they will be worth more shiny than they are dull. Cities crumble and fall to ruin. Fortunes are made and lost and made again. Brothers and sisters are dealt the most abject of poverty, but here we are, in the Heavenly Star, pitching in for another ale or two and finding great pleasure there regardless, pushing and shoving, bumping and being bumped. We blab and chatter and find ourselves amusing and being amused, rich and generally satisfied with our lot. We rub elbows, shoulders and other parts with those around us, sharing our simple wares. Catching a glimpse of ourselves in a mirror we stop for a moment to reflect. Is that really us? How did we get here? Where did we come from? Where are we supposed to go? What are we supposed to do? Pedestrian fare. The usual. Our glance does not dwell there in the mirror too long. We do not look quite the picture that we had desired or imagined. Oh well. There's more to life than mirrors. Someone pulls out a camera. We squint and pull our best faces, fillings glinting, cheeks glowing. Tomorrow, we think, … we will try that little bit harder, do it all that little bit better. Tomorrow we really will.

chapter 65 - the need to leave
This is all rather addictive. We mean, … we find it hard to stop, and there appears to be no limit to how far we can go. Is this entirely natural? Could it be a problem? Will we receive an unexpected and exorbitant bill at the end of it all? If only there was an edge, a line, a border, a barbed-wire fence or some such thing. But then, on the other hand, this falling is immensely pleasurable. We are hand-in-hand, making a circle, rotating a little this way and that in freefall, the wind whistling through our jumpsuits, our goggles fogged, below us the patchwork beauty of the dance floor. We have lost count and have no idea when we are supposed to open our chutes. Over there, someone is tap-dancing on a table. It is rumoured that Bebe -singer, muse, musician and actress- is playing in a chapel somewhere out there in the wilds of the night where the elements show no restraint. But we are warm and dry in here, entertained and charging through the air like meteors, the friction causing us to glow a little around our edges. Tis all good clean fun. But then suddenly the tap-dancer slips right off the end of the table and on top of us. We do our very best to catch him. There is the clatter of heel and toe-taps, the crash of marble tabletops, glasses, chandeliers and the odd monocle, knives and tuning forks spinning in the air. The lights dim and shiver, making a kind of strobe effect. Our unusual freefall dance collapses like a rugby scrum. Next thing we know people are coming at us with shovels and rakes. Kitty has her fish-hook claws out and has made a rather ambitious leap for the door. The bar staff are throwing open cupboards and drawers in search of Panadol. We flick open our watches. Could that really be the time! We are taken by a sudden and urgent need to leave.

chapter 66 - harmony
It's so quiet out here in the square. Yes, you can hear all the way to the sea, to where it's busy with its work. It never stops, keeps on, regardless of what we do. Yes, the sea and the wind, a team, working in harmony, all around this island, and all islands, and everywhere, and always in harmony. The wind tells the sea what to do. Is that right? Do they always agree? They seem to. And they always have, since they were first conceived. And when were they first conceived? That, … we will never know. It was long ago and anyway, there is no need for us to know such a thing. What difference would it possibly make? None. It was just a thought. We can meditate on it just the same. Meditate? Well, contemplate. All right, we have done that now. Can we go? Of course we can go. Not a soul is stirring out here in the square, nor an animal or insect or stone. Look, even the raindrops have gathered and come to rest in pools, gold leaved with flakes of street light. Yes, and the fog has moved on its way, has dispersed, has gone and settled in the trees. Yes, and the wind has dropped (as they say), is reclining, barely stirring, merely caressing the sea so soothingly. Always work together, those two, always doing their own thing -in Japan or Singapore or Madagascar, or all the way down to Antarctica. Yes, it's true. So, can we go now? Of course we can go. Good. I'm glad. But how?

chapter 67 - improvisation
But how can we go? Do we have to harp on about this? Look, … a building site. Perhaps we'll find something useful there. Here's an empty barrel. No, no good. What about assorted planks and timber? No, no use. A pile of chipped bricks and concrete scrapings? No. A mound of gravel? Useless. A stack of reinforcing mesh? Nope, no good. Cement mixer (both tyres flat). No, not useful. A cracked helmet? Forget it. Glove with no fingers? Ditto. Well, what about this wheelbarrow? … Possibly. Why are you putting on those overalls? You're going to drive? But they're muddy and wet. Too late. Will we all fit in a wheelbarrow? Possibly. The doctor has disappeared, has gone his eccentric and enigmatic way and I can't see the cat either. False friends. Fair-weather things. Just us again, the inner circle, the fortunate few, the lucky exceptions, the last bunch on the vine, hangers on, the dwindling and dawdlers. So do we sit in rows, or Indian file, or one on top of the other? We'll just have to improvise. Necessity is the mother of invention. And improvisation what? The lover?

chapter 68 - necessary evils
Footsteps on the road, the wheel squeaking. It is clearly annoying at first but we soon learn to ignore it. Occasional sparks shoot out behind us as the barrow legs scrape on the bitumen. It is an ungainly arrangement, but there you have it. We are not too proud to travel in a wheelbarrow. We have done far worse in our time. We have walked barefoot over volcanic rock and glass, have crawled through swamps and minefields, have walked both tight and slack ropes across dangerously exhilarating drops. We have driven cars with and without brakes, down mountain roads scarred with skid marks and with crash barriers in tatters. Why, we have sailed sieves into storms at sea and lived to tell. We've been shot from cannons and have crossed continents in shopping trolleys. Don't scoff at us because now we are in a fucking wheelbarrow. We are hurrying home to our cabin before day breaks, before birds begin their song, before the cold light of morn frowns upon us. This night is not over yet. There is still time to squeeze a bit more out of it. We love to squeeze the utmost from things, we really do. We are simple folk and shun waste. We scrape our saucepans shiny and sometimes lick our plates. We drain the last drop from bottles, squeeze the very last dollop from tubes, and darn our socks till our thumbs bleed and it nearly sends us blind. Tis in our nature. Tis our way with things. Which does not mean, on the other hand, that we do not enjoy the sound of leaves tearing from the calendar, or the sigh of petals plucked from a daisy before we nonchalantly toss them over our shoulder. This world is full of contradictions. Don't expect us to iron them out. We are busy enough as it is, piled on top of each other and doing our very best not to fall out of the barrow. The nightscape glides by in an uneven but pleasing kind of way. The one at the back is wheezing (running now because we are going downhill), but someone has to do it.

chapter 69 - this urgent need
As we turn off the sealed road we come to blows with more difficult terrain. Do we suffer for art? Of course not. Does it ever suffer for us? No mishaps or inconveniences are chalked up on our walls. We are fully responsible for our own wrong turns, misgivings and short-comings. We hold no grudges, don't peek through the hedges of those more fortunate than us. What would be the point of that? We are more than happy with our lot. We do not expect or require the best of things, are relatively content with the present imperfect. How fortunate we are. How very fortunate. We hit a ditch and fly into the air in an alarming kind of way. What goes up unfortunately must come down. No need for a frigging professor to tell you that. We do, of course, come to ground in a disorderly and uncoordinated manner. Fortunately the side of the road is lined with wild grasses and weeds and recently tilled soil. Small animals shoot this way and that microseconds before our impact. Kersplat! There we are, flat on the ground, the wind knocked out of us and our heads ringing. It reminds us of when we were little and we fell out of trees, or when grown-ups flung us round as we did "the helicopter" and let us go for a lark. It all comes rushing back, all except this much needed air that we rely on so. Why does it take so much to inflate a deflated lung? If only the doctor were here. There's nothing to us now but this vacuum inside, this urgent need to breathe. We swear never again to take a fish from the water and watch as it drowns in air. We never will. Tis the simple things in life we love, … like breathing. Alarms are ringing in our brains, orders barked, urgent communications fired off to the engine room. What's going on down there? And then, when it appears that all is lost and we are slipping irretrievably away (and that this will be the end of the story), then at the very last minute a short breath of air slips into us followed by another, and another, and before we know it we are full of ourselves and ready to jump to our feet, slapping our knees with the joy of it all. Have we been using the word "joy" too much? It is certainly dear to us, and we seek to find it in the strangest of places.

chapter 70 - everything that rises
Before we inevitably rise we lie there on the ground where we have fallen and observe the sky. Tis not sprinkled and sprayed and pierced with stardust and deep as eternity tonight. Tis overcast and low, bruised, diffuse and glowing annoyingly with spilled car park and street lighting. The world we live in, (we sigh) the bed we make for ourselves to lie in. But it is not an unpleasant sensation here, at one with the earth (we are lying on it) and contemplating that which is above. How often do we stop and meticulously take stock of our surroundings? We mean, … really. We lie there till we feel the damp and dankness seeping through the fabric of our clothes and underclothes. Tis all part of our art. This damp and dankness is not such a bad thing. We savour it while tossing thoughts around in our minds. Thought #1: if you don't fall down you aren't trying hard enough, are sticking to safe ground. You are unadventurous. You do not have an inquisitive nature, you lack curiosity, that essential spark, get-up-and-go. Thought #2: If you do fall down, try to do it with elegance. Try to do everything in this life with elegance. You owe it to yourself, … trying at least. Thought #3: If you do fall down, don't get back up straight away and dust yourself down in an embarrassed kind of way. Lie there for a time and enjoy it. Lie there and make out as if this falling down was intentional and that the process and its repercussions interest you immensely. Thought #4: If you are holding something in the process of falling, never (under any circumstance) let it go, be it a valuable possession, a full glass, your sanity or another person. It is extremely bad taste to let go of the one that you are holding in the throws of a fall. It is a bad omen for all involved. Thought #5: What is so good about being vertical anyway? Do you think it actually proves anything? Many animals have never achieved verticality and are none the worse off for it. (End of thoughts.) Rags of fog drag idly by. We are not far from home now. We can hear the hushed rumble of the sea. It is calling us. Our warm dry cabin is calling us. Our children in their velvet-lined boxes are calling us. Everything is calling us. We are beckoned. We are needed on this earth. We get to our feet like newly awakened zombies. We climb back into that wheelbarrow. Oh, what a life this is.

chapter 71 - accounting
Piled in the barrow like onions and leeks on the way to market. Our roots are matted and muddy and our outer leaves somewhat battered. Inside we are firm and as perfectly furled as rosebuds. We retain our composure, jiggling along there, fitted as snugly as sardines in the tin. Repeated mention of food being unintentional, … or is it? Our last meal was back in chapter 51. That fuel has been long burned and disposed of. A lot of water under the bridge since chapter 51, a lot of chickens flown the coop and horses bolted. A lot of wine bottled. A lot of ingestion and digestion, dissection and introspection, extrapolation and extroversion, disappointment, surprise, distraction, wonder and mental wandering, some smiles spent, the occasional yawn, an odd tear shed, some glints in the eye, various nudges in ribs, teeth picked, a few quips and equations, some misunderstandings and misinterpretations, ideas distilled, gripes fermented, renovation of facades, reinforcing of foundations, buttons popped and belts unbuckled, opportunities knocked and ignored, observations noted and immediately forgotten, a couple of caresses and a Half Nelson. We jiggle along the road, vacant as chickens about to be chopped. We are not hurrying now. We are idling along coz we always get there in the end.

chapter 72 - if we continue
The sea -which we never tire of seeing or hearing or thinking of- is washing in over there. The breeze coming in over the brow of the dunes. There's a hole torn through the cloud and a slice of moon is clearly visible, pale and naked and trembling. What does she have to fear? Does she know something that we do not? Does she suffer for art? Does art suffer for her? She is lighting the thick folds of those velvety clouds, is radiant and centre stage. We come to the crest of the hill, knowing that we are nearly home, a mere turn to the right and softly we fall in the gravel outside the porch of our cabin. Or, if we do not turn, if we continue on our way, inquisitive and pig-headed, crossing the softness of the dunes, through the papery caress of the palms, across the moon-like rocks, where lovers sometimes sit contemplating their bind, where the waves come in to release their brine to the air. If we continue across the rock and matted weed and into the waves, sinking and losing our grip and footing for a time, sinking down and running in slow-motion now, our feet stirring feathers of mud from the sea-floor, our legs forging through the slow-dancing fields of sea grass, charging on in our barrow or chariot or whatever it is, looking up now and seeing through the water and waves and glittering chrome schools of fish, the moon up there in the liquid sky, precise and alluring as a pearl. If we continue.

chapter 73 - come as you are
We come over the rise. We come as we are: weather-beaten, water-damaged and world-weary. Limbs are dangling, spirits sinking. It's only natural. We dance to the planets' beck and call, equipped only with our finite reserves and fluctuating inner candle. We come through the trees and see our cabin there. We see that we are not alone, that we have company. Given our present state of mind and current trajectory, forgive us for what we are about to see. Let's not go on about it too much. Let's leave it at this and not dwell excessively on the supernatural. We come over the rise and we see that we have company. William Burroughs is unloading sheets of shot-at plywood from the back of a van. His nurse (in full uniform) is in the front seat, smoking a cigarette. There is a shotgun leaning against the back of the vehicle. We see Picasso up on the porch of our cabin, head shining in the porch light, standing there, penetrating a canvas with his famous stare. Gertrude Stein is on her knees, picking herbs from the garden, Alice B standing just inside the door, hands locked at her waist. Through the kitchen window we see Malcolm Lowry, sitting at the table, the room quivering with gin, the naked light bulb fizzing and spitting. Outside that window a bare-foot Carson McCullers crouches in the shade of a sycamore tree. Up at the end of the path Chekhov stands, leaning on his cane, staring across the fields to the weak lights of cottages and cabins, and the life they contain. James Joyce is at the dining room table, wearing his customary tennis shoes, monocle in place, wine glass down-turned (never drinks till after dinner), waiting for Nora's return. The flicker of light from the bathroom could be from Marlon Brando's candle. He is seated on the edge of the bath, face half hidden by the shower curtain and his darker side. He has shaved his head and still has the razor hanging in his hand. Marguerite Yourcenar is seated by her bed, writing neatly in that enormous journal. Herman Melville -in his post office uniform- is in the shed, meddling with a paraffin lamp. He pulls out his pocket watch and turns it in his hand. Our barrow moves silently, and there is no-one behind it, pushing it along. We come over the rise and see that we have company.

chapter 74 - release the catches
As we draw near we see that we have company. Not the previously mentioned ghostly apparitions, lost in their various hinterlands, now a more tangible creature is gracing our doorstep. The cat has miraculously appeared. How it has got here is more than we are capable of imagining. It is not soiled, wet or fatigued. Its tongue is not hanging out and it is not panting. It is not tossed on the ground like a flimsy toy. It is standing there tall on its pathetic little legs with its afore mentioned bent aerial in the air. It's looking down at us in a reproachful kind of way for taking so long to get there and let it in. The poor thing is purring so hard that its in danger of rattling off the edge of the porch. Still, it is nice to be greeted. We think of the children locked inside, safe and sound in their boxes, and this thought warms our innards and stirs our inclinations. We get out of the barrow and heave it into the garden, glad to be rid of it. We have bent out of shape somewhat during our trajectory, some of us are shaped like the letter G and others, the letter W. We stretch our limbs in the air, in a futile attempt at retrieving our previous form. If only. Tis truly a hard life on the road and many a dint and scrape are to be had, many a broken string and bridge, many days sleeping in bakeries or in ditches, many long nights watching nothing but the road unroll, the headlights surprising the dark. We open our cabin door and once again try out the couches to confirm that they are as comfortable as we remember them to be. We slip off our boots and empty their contents on the floor: sticks and stones and sand, some annelids and insects, along with miscellaneous balls of otherness. The stench is intolerable. We carry our boots to the far edge of the porch and out of range. We stretch out once more on the furniture, wiggling our liberated toes -surely the most neglected of our appendages. But let's just leave them there. The point of this is not to dwell on our intimacies, curious as they are. We are soon beckoned from our reverie by the rattling of latches on the children's boxes. With us in the room they have a sudden and pressing need to express themselves. Or, on the other hand, that is just what we have.

chapter 75 - foetal horses may gallop in the womb
We have no reason not to believe this. If we close our eyes we can nearly see them; pink, slightly orange, still transparent, floating in amniotic fluid, bulging buds of eyes still blind, limbs gently twitching and hinting at a gallop, that surprisingly graceful use of four legs to propel one along at speed -some of us cannot manage a trot on two. So do unborn musicians likewise blindly reach for keys and strings? Do their fingers uncurl to run scales up and down the umbilical cord? In our first home, is the first music our mother's voice, warming and moving all around us as we push and shove and jostle for a place within her innards? Then out we come, emerging into the world and already performing our first chants and ditties, later as adolescents, wooing and serenading our desired ones with reeds between our thumbs, combs and paper, harmonicas and battered Marshall amps, tambourines or whatever, voices cracking and breaking, words coming out every which way. If a horse were to put its mind to it, what kind of melody would it compose? (Can horses do harmony? Do they occasionally hum?) We latch onto song and hold it within us in its raw state, or whittle it down and polish it if we can. And there it stays till we grudgingly release it (along with everything else) as we lie in our box while our friends and family gather round to settle debts and send us on our way. And even then there is sometimes the sound of a funereal trio -piano, flute and cello- the cello as constant and solid as the ground itself, the flute stoically playing out some melancholy melody while the piano fiddles and fills in the missing notes and asides. And then silence. We do not mean to sit here in our socks and conjure up such maudlin scenes. It somehow simply dawns on us and then disappears just as quick. Our instruments (the children) are impatient and are rapping on their lids to be let out, in serious need of attention they are. Late as it is, … and believe us it is, … we are feeling surprisingly supple and are looking for things to open -a bottle of wine found under a bed, a hotel bible, a can of sardines dated 1963 - we show no mercy, because apart from this great thirst of ours, we sometimes also have a great hunger.

chapter 76 - dear diary
Dear diary. It was very late, had been a very long day and we should all have known better, but we didn't. Someone opened a can of rancid sardines and then we found a bottle of cheap, obnoxious wine that some careless holidaymaker had left on the floor under a bed, … perhaps because it was undrinkable. We drank it anyway, and had a fine old time. As uncle Dick always said, it's the thought that counts, and we thought it wasn't all that bad. It was nice to be warm and dry again. We sat around in clean socks and jerseys, strumming and stroking our instruments, dancing a little and jabbering away with our absurd stream-of-consciousness thoughts. All very Kerouac. Was fun for a time but we soon tired of it and began to make a terrible racket (we thought it was music) playing our instruments with our feet and beating the furniture with chopping boards and wooden spoons. Splinters and kindling were flying every which way. What joy it is to break things sometimes. We got a little carried away, didn't know where we were, what was right and what was wrong. Ah, but of course we treated the children with the utmost of care. And then, dear diary, a terrible, terrible, terrible thing did happen, a thing that we may never be able to successfully erase from our minds. More later. P.S. Hope you are well.

chapter 77 - diary dearest
We see that you are growing long, sometimes unfurling and tangling round the leg of the chair, sometimes blowing out the door and carried up into the trees. We see that you are full if incidents and reflections. We see that this roll of paper that we are writing on is running out. We will not be able to insert it in a bottle after all. Will a barrel do? Dear diary, so much has happened. We fret for fear of forgetting it all. But you must understand that the writing of it is secondary and that at times our minds are elsewhere. We are simple folk and this is where our minds sometimes are. At this moment we have slipped out of them completely and are flirting with otherness. It's the music, you see. It does this to us. It makes us do it. We plead innocence. We are busy in the cabin making this majestic racket. We have lost track of time, have let it go and turned our backs as it quickly sails high into the sky and over towards the horizon, about to disappear completely. We have not escaped it. It has escaped us. Dearest diary, is this wrong to let it go like that? Are we being selfish and simple-minded? We are working ourselves up into a kind of frenzy. The lights are flashing on and off of their own accord. Electrical appliances that have not worked in years (and that are disconnected) are turned on and fully functioning. The plaster has cracked and out from the cracks sand is pouring. Insects have emerged from cupboards and drawers and are lined up along the sink, staring at us. The roof is occasionally lifting off and affording us a glimpse of the thick and turbulent night sky. The cat has crawled into a jar and is staring at us from there too, magnified terribly. All this we can cope with. Diary dearest, we desire it, we yearn for it, throw ourselves willingly to its licking and leaping flames. Is this lunacy? Because just then, when we are at our busiest, at our most industrious and devious, at the end of our tether, where moss grows and some heather, just then we are confronted with the most disturbing of things. Tis chilling and to describe it we are at a loss how to begin?

chapter 78 - dear, dear diary
Dear, dear diary. Take a deep breath before you read on. Look up from your desk, look out your window and take comfort from what you have seen. Dear diary, if you have children, balance them on your knee, appreciate their sweet way of being, their innocence and lack of tenderness, their one-and-only-ness. Enjoy them. We are at this moment embroiled in that real good time (outlined in chapter 47). We have finally managed to fully unwind. Our spools are empty and our thread tossed all about the room. We do firmly believe that we are making a unique kind of music, are swinging in an un-thought-of way, are finding that new path to the waterfall. We are in the midst of this, in the thick of it, fully-functioning and focused when we see the apparition. At first she appears to be floating in the doorway, that nightgown flapping in the same way as the curtains are. There is a sudden chill to the air. Some of us are convinced that she has no legs, others imagine that she is carrying her disconnected head in her hands. Diary, dear dear diary, we are not prepared for apparitions at this time of night. They niggle our intestines and tangle our nerves. She is the colour of ash. As she opens her mouth we see those broken glass teeth and that strangely pointed tongue. (Some of us believe it to be scaled, others, forked.) She comes right into the room, unannounced, un-knocking, … unanimously unwelcome. She stares at us with mean little eyes. There is smoke escaping from her mouth, steam rising from her back. Who has sent us such a messenger, and what kind of message does she bear? We have seen many things in our tiny insignificant lives, but nothing of this calibre or type. We are hushed and motionless, waiting for the best or worst yet to come.

chapter 79 - seek refuge
We carefully put the children down on the beds. Not a word is muttered, not a goodnight said. We crawl into the instrument boxes and close the lids. There are times when it is necessary to take refuge in velvet-lined boxes.

chapter 80 - delusion
Instrument boxes are all very well for instruments. They fit snugly inside them, have no elbows, knees or other protrusions. We cannot say that we are comfortable there. In fact, we are beginning to regret this rather rash and cowardly move. So what if we are visited by a disagreeable character. It's not the first time and it certainly won't be the last. One has to deal with disagreeable characters in life. One really does. We are taken by a sudden light-headedness. Oxygen running low. Carbon di running high. The thought of being the first musicians to ever suicide by asphyxiation in their own instrument cases briefly passes our minds. It does have a certain neatness to it. Each in his box is wondering what the other ones are thinking now. It becomes a game of cat and mouse, a challenge to think the most bizarre of thoughts and outsmart the others. Surely we are not all thinking of suicide. Some must be thinking of procuration, others of procreation. Tis only natural. These puffs of thought bloom and wilt, gather and move on, as they always have, leaving us somewhat distant and incomplete. If only we could put these thoughts to good use. It really is a game now, a waiting game. How long can we stay in here? Who will be the first to weaken and break? Who will push the lid open first? Tis as futile as a cat staring at a mouse hole. So we soon tire of this game and pine for our beds. We are in need of a horizontal leaning, some curled, others straight. We are in need of escape, more than just hiding in boxes, what we really need is to fall into the gentle arms of sleep.

chapter 81 - so what
So what if we dwell in here a moment more? What if we push against the soft darkness and something gives? What if there is a hidden door at the back of this instrument case, a door that opens into a yet to be discovered place? Our adventurous spirit does not let us down. What if by some strange twist of time and place, some unexpected gravitational wave, a timely warp, … what if some such thing affords us unimagined access to a hidden world, there, just through the trapdoor that may or may not be at the back of this case. We gently push and it gives. Blackness opens into blackerness. We are sorry if we are inventing words, but the occasion does seem to warrant it. This is not some flirtation with the gloom of the garden shed. This is not a peek behind the stove. This is not a midnight stroll down the garden path. Into the space that has opened we tentatively extend a hand. If we had a stone we could drop it now and wait -hand to ear- for a long-coming plop. We lean forward to make a sound, to test if there is an echo. But it is like speaking then shouting into a wall of felt, the sound of our voice only heard in our head. What if we were to take a step, to step forward and into this abyss? Would we fall? Or would we float? Would we sail out into orbit with some luminous and terribly attractive body? Or would we be engulfed by this matter that is occupying the nothingness, drown in this esoteric ink? It is not a moment for the indecisive or the weak of heart. Calm and meticulous calculations are required. It is not a time for throwing dice or tossing coins in the air. It is soon evident that we are not going to venture into that dark place. Outside this case candles flicker over our cabin walls. And outside those walls the wind has swept away the rain and fog. Waves are falling in a playful and enthusiastic way. The lighthouse spins its spoke of light, clipping the tops of waves and the emerging fins of surfacing dolphins. Outside this case the other members of the ensemble wait, each like a piece to this humanly puzzle. There are lines, more lines to write, more tunes to hum and songs to sing, more notes to pluck, more erratic and elegant tracks to make. We turn our backs on the blackness and push open the lid.

chapter 82 - counting song
Oh this world that we already know so well. There is nothing like coming home. We emerge from our boxes and dust down our clothes. Has been an in-the-nick-of-time thing, a near miss, a close shave, a brush with otherness. We have of course survived. As you can see this chronicle continues, … for better or for worse. The cat has popped out of its jar and has its tail the size of a feather duster. Are sensitive creatures and expressive when it comes to fear. We toss the poor thing a piece of chewing gum and stretch out on our bunks and on our benches. We close our eyes and wait for the waves to come to us and to massage the day's events away, from the surface to down deep and away into the shifting sands. No more headless apparitions lurk. No trivial concerns take root and sprout. No deceased artists or phantom doctors. The iridescent green lizards are lost in the dew grass of night. We are far from the madding crowd, far from the industry of cities and towns. The Earth is turning ever so slowly and holding us gently on our bunks, stopping us from rising into the air and gathering on the ceiling like so many abandoned balloons. All over the cabin comes the sound of discarded boots thudding on the floor. Chains and other jewellery are thrown on tables. Small change dropped on the floor. We are letting go of our strings now, dropping moorings and drifting. Who knows what distant shores we'll come upon. One for the dark night, and two for your eyes, three for the pillow, and four for goodnight.

chapter 83 - tomorrow
Things to do:
Try to do more than you did today
Take the reins
Stand up straight
Polish shoes
Be more considerate
Look on the bright side
Cherish what you have
Sew fallen buttons back on
Write a song called: "I let myself go"
Have lunch with the doctor
Pay back money owed
Eat properly
Let myself go
Borrow some money
Try to cut down on spending
Sew up holes in pockets
Have shoes re-heeled
Not lose anything
Not miss the boat
Go for a swim
Write something in the sand
Sweep the kitchen floor
Read something … anything
Take up a hobby
Give up nail-biting
Apologise for forgotten birthdays
Remember things that count
Draw a picture, even if it's a bad one, … and it will be
De-flea the cat
Live for the moment
Don't put anything away for a rainy day, then forget where, and what it was
Shine up those good points
Ignore the bad
Remember dreams
Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain
If the mobile falls into the toilet again, leave it there
Climb peaks
Lie in hollows
Write letters
Fix leaks
Go with the flow
Try not to make the same mistakes
Use a diary
Make the same mistakes and enjoy them
De-worm the cat
Tell Clarissa and Arnold what you think of them
Write another song
Sit and watch the sun rise … and then set
Put nose to the grindstone
Tighten belt
Sleep late
Learn to skate on thin ice
Beg, borrow and steal
Get real
Get up early
Look into new vices
Up the stakes
Listen to voices
Place faces
Play the fool
Break rules
Speak in tongues
See the wood for the trees
Lurk in the shadows
Dabble in Voodoo
Go to the library
Fiddle the books
Learn to live with it, whatever it is
Let the past lie
Hang out the washing
Get teeth fixed
Tell absurd lies
Unblock drains
Put doors back on hinges
Observe leaking cisterns
Give the cat a name
Thread hooks and drop lines
Wear matching socks
Eat more fruit
Plant vegetables
Talk in rhyme
Tie up loose threads
Carry a notebook, and write things in it
Anything, everything, thoughts, deeds, driftwood, splinters and shavings, shopping lists and itineraries, observations on the weather, prices of things
You never know when you could need it
And even if you never do, it's somehow comforting to know that you have it there, … somewhere

chapter 84 - scribbling in the margins
The sun is on the other side, or we have turned our other side to the sun and there is no sign of it in any case. We are simple folk and we do not pretend to understand such complex issues as the movement of planets. We do not lose sleep over the question of who revolves around whom, or where we all came from. For us it is a blessing and a joy that each day when we raise our sleepy lids a bright new day is waiting there for us, waiting there for us to fill with our industry and delight. We are not scientific by inclination, nor religious by nature. We do not have political leanings or other such problems of posture. We do, however, believe in otherness, and are thankful for these meagre but magnificent doses. The sun is on the other side and we are on our bunks and benches, some hanging from branches, others floating in the deepest waters of sleep. We are simple folk and will not go on about dreams and other theatrical devices. We are loving and giving, fair of face and work hard for a living. But do not pay us too much attention right now. We are once again in suspension, like amoebae and other amoebozoa, hapless and shapeless, morphing on in our abstract kind of pseudopod way.

chapter 85 - turning pages
The sun cuts through the horizon. It blazes and glares and casts its golden beams across the water and onto the porch wall. The Earth edges round and one of those beams slips in through the window and onto the living room floor. We are asleep and do not see this happen. We are engaged and oblivious, so please do not nudge, niggle or disturb our slumber. We are tangled up in seaweed and dreams, tumbled about with pillows and cushions and whimsy. Our hair is unruly. Sunlight washes over us and forges on towards the chaos of the kitchen, that rabble of dinted utensils and chipped and cracked crockery, of burnt matches and melted candles. Pages of a hotel bible have been torn and screwed into little flowers. Fruit has been peeled and nuts shelled. Half-eaten bits of lizard are scattered on the bench; a head here, a tail and hind leg over there. Do not judge us on the state of our kitchen. We are distant and claim innocence. Do not disturb. Please, read under your breath and do not make a noise while turning the pages.

chapter 86 - morning glory
Some of us wake with a start and others with a splutter. Some bright-eyed and others bushy in the tail and other parts. We will approach this new and enticing day in our own way. Some lying low, ignoring it, others bewildering it with complex schemes and shams. Half of us stumble out into the sunshine and the other half don't. We are complementary in that way. We follow our noses and heed our slightest inclinations, trundling along the sandy beachside path towards the refreshing sea. Relishing the novelty of it all. The sea is murky and ruffled today, amok with seaweed and medusas. We dip our pallid bodies into it all the same, slowly so as to avoid disturbance of our delicate equilibrium. For a time in those uninspiring waves we attempt to bodysurf, taking turns to be the board. Your turn, my turn. Must be a curious sight. Our tender and talented feet suffer on the rocks. Our skin pricks with the tingle of sea lice and brine. We soon stop trying and crawl up the sand like Crusoe to a dry and sheltered place where one or two near naked tourists are beached, apparently lifeless, abandoned by their owners and keepers. They could have been there for an hour or perhaps a whole week, bloated as they are and scorched by the sun. We recline on our elbows and think about other days on other beaches. We think about digging holes to bury brothers and sisters in, about awkward walks with childhood sweethearts, about snagged hooks and knotted lines. We think about things that got away, and others that we could never shake off. And then the stroking sea massages it all away and we are once more up on our feet and on the move, prancing across the boardwalk in our unflattering swimwear, in search of breakfast to triumphantly present the others with. What more could a person wish for?

chapter 87 - this unseeing eye
When we turn the corner the whale is there, stretched out along the path between us and our cabin. Tis neither a welcome nor unwelcome sight. Tis simply curious at that point of time, at that place on the path. Who are we to question what we do and do not see? Our eyes do not lie to us. We see a whale there on the path. It is jet black in colour and must be over six metres long. High up on the broadest part of its back is the dorsal fin, shaped like a pruning knife and listing somewhat to one side. We come up close to the whale and marvel with outstretched hands, as if to grasp its enormous size and unimaginable volume. What would we measure it against? Ourselves? Its tail is flat on the ground. The whitish pink tip of its tongue emerging between its jaws. Do whales really have tongues? We cannot be sure of that but this is what our eyes tell us. The whale is clearly dead. Its skin has dried dull and brine has crusted around its unseeing eye. We put our ears to its side and hear the drip and gurgle of abandonment in its innards, in its compartments, corridors and holds. We hear the creak and groan of its hull and frame. Tis a melancholy sound and we almost wish that we have not heard it. There is no denying it now though, no turning back. We shall have to add it to our repertoire, put it down as posthumous admiration. Why, a child could crawl down the aorta of a large whale and live comfortably within its heart, which must be the size of a family sedan. We can't help but to think of such a thing, then search our minds for rhyme or reason. Where has this creature come from? Where did it want to go? Have we somehow drawn it from the deep? If not, what fear has driven it so far from the water, as if to seek refuge in our meagre cabin? Was it out of solidarity, or desolation? Is this a vision, the product of rancid sardines and cheap obnoxious wine? When we turn the corner the whale is there, stretched out along the path between us and our cabin. This is all we can be sure of. We must take this in our stride. We must walk the long way round and climb in through the bathroom window. We must shower and shave, splash cologne about and not dwell too long on quiet beasts of this kind that throw themselves into shallows, just as we sometimes consider plunging into the deep.

chapter 88 - set the iron ringing
We are climbing in through the bathroom window; one of us with hands clasped together to make a stirrup, the other giddying-up the wall and gripping the windowsill. It is not such a high window but has been a somewhat eventful weekend, occupying our minds and bodies relentlessly. As we scale the wall we are suddenly accosted by disturbing questions. What if this whale is following us? Could it be a past acquaintance come back in a different form? Could the doctor have something to do with this -it is most irregular? Would we be able to cut a fillet of blubber and fry that up for our breakfast? Where would one begin? Is what we've heard about the size, softness and usefulness of a whale's foreskin true? Could we possibly find it and fashion trousers or at least gloves from it? We teeter on the sill, overwhelmed by indecision and whimsy, half in, half out. We lose our balance and tumble through the window and into the tub. Knees and elbows set the iron ringing.

chapter 89 - all knives have disappeared
All knives have disappeared. We are standing on the porch with a corkscrew. The sky is the colour of lemon gone bad, and the whale is still there. "What if they think we left it there?" someone says. "You can't cut a fillet with a corkscrew" says another. The sea is neither happy nor sad, is simply doing a routine thing. We turn and go inside. The aroma of blubber slabs frying slips from our minds. We rifle through pockets as a second-best measure. We come up with a handful of peanuts, six olives, sand, three olive seeds, a crumpled cinema ticket and a complimentary sweet. More than enough for breakfast. We set to work laying the table and making ourselves respectable, running forks through our hair and splashing our faces with sea air. We place the food on a plate in the centre of the table, lay paper napkins on our laps and tuck in.

chapter 90 - our way of being
Beams of sun are breaking through the cloud cover and spreading patches of cheer across the land. We recline in our chairs and digest the scraps and crumbs. Has been a frugal meal but lunch will be more complete. We have an appointment with the doctor. We will be lunching in a restaurant, on his recommendation. That is to say, he is prescribing lunch. Over lunch we will confront this so-called doctor about his insistent interest in us and our behaviour. We will oblige him to lay his cards on the table, to come clean, to state his intentions. We will do this while we are waiting for dessert, always a convenient moment to pop a candid question. We are soon to leave this island. The enigma of the doctor remains unresolved. It niggles us. We are not dying to know. We are not beside ourselves with intrigue, at the end of our ropes. No, it simply niggles us. Perhaps he is jealous of our way of being. He wouldn't be the first. Perhaps he is envious. That is understandable enough. We are envious ourselves. Tis in our nature and we do not fight it. It keeps us awake, on edge, vigilant. It stimulates us. Take us to an art gallery and we want to be artists, want to render the world to our own particular stroke. Take us to the cinema and we are suddenly actors or directors, conjuring up the most complex scenes and capable of capturing them with economy and elegance. Take us to a concert and we are of course already snatching melody and scraps of lyric, slipping that certain mood into our pockets for later use. Why, we are envious of the farmer ploughing his field, envious of the field itself, for the grace of its lie and ever-changing colour and texture. So do not start us on the skippers of boats or the sea. We love boats and all that they stand for. We adore them, are immensely envious of their ability and grace as they brave storms or simply trail diverging wakes across some glassy sea. We envy the horizon, envy the distance and the deep. We envy rats for their ability to live with such aplomb in sewers without the merest hint of posturing or snobbery. And so, it is conceivable that we are envying the doctor here and now, as he is envying us. Only time will tell. We recline in our chairs and digest scraps and crumbs.

chapter 91 - cushion the fall
Tis time to move. Time to get up and go. Time to shake legs and other parts. Time to split. Time to slither and slide, to open wide, lift latches and turn tides. Time to tie shoelaces and bows, to consult compasses and wishbones. Streamers pull tight as the ship slides from the side of the dock. Time to move, to boogie and smooch. We get up out of our chairs and rub our bellies. They appear to have grown somewhat despite the frugality of breakfast. Our appetite is boundless, knows no limits, keeps us hungry and lean. If we are bulging in our middles, tis simply a temporary thing. We are taking on provisions for some future occasion of want. Do not shake your heads at us for our prevision. We get up out of our chairs and throw on our outfits. We do up buttons, tighten straps and tug at sleeves. We draw on stockings and buckle shoes. Our collars are turned and sideburns trimmed, our lashes firm, our ringlets permed. We have polished our skin with powders and scent. It's not that we require more renovation than others, but we do like to enhance our natural beauty. We throw our bedraggled belongings into bags and cases. The children are tight in their boxes, ready for the next leg of our journey, ready for the coming chapters. We pile the luggage by the door and throw a glance around the cabin. If we were the sentimental kind we would dawdle there in a melancholy way and not dare to look back as we lock the door. But we are not the sentimental kind, simply taking some bed linen and towels, a corkscrew and the guest stationery in way of souvenirs. We huddle at the front door but are mysteriously unable to open it. Out on the path the whale lies. We do not wish to be reminded of this. It produces questions in us that are too big for us to handle. It puts us out of our wits and whittles down our wisdom. It rattles our windows and shakes our foundations. These are not entirely pleasant sensations, not even for us, seasoned and salty as we are, weather-beaten and world-worn. No, we do not want to be reminded of the whale. It unearths our buried things, blunts and dulls our edges. We must make a stand. We give each other knowing looks, grab our goods and chattels and head for the bathroom. We throw the children and the cat through the window first then throw ourselves to follow, using each other to cushion the fall.

chapter 92 - sitting on the fence
We sit on a fence looking out over the waves, as landlubbers do. And we do love the land, while adoring the sea as well. We could be perched at the bow of a ship, steaming across the sea to who knows where. Behind us the whale may or not be. We do not care to turn and look. If we are capable of conjuring up such a thing, then we are just as capable of ignoring it, of leaving it behind. We are masters of our own destiny, Jacks-of-all-trades. We have no need for psychoanalysis, aroma therapists, pedologists or plumbers. We fix our own leaks and untangle our own vines. We scribble down our own observations and keep our diaries poignant. It is Sunday and we are leaving this cabin and this cove, perhaps we will never return. In the light of this solemn fact we are nearly moved to take the instruments from their boxes, we are nearly moved to strum and hold them, to address these nagging feelings and conjure up something new. We could write a song, or even an operetta. But no, we simply sit there with this vague impression of crossing the sea and a soon forgotten intention to jot some ephemeral thought in a diary, we sit there with our landlubberly, indistinct yearning. We do not lift a finger or a toe, or strive to put together two words or notes. That song will have to wait, or will have to fall by the wayside to wither there. Some are born dead. Tis the law of the jungle. Only the fittest take root and grow. Only the fittest blossom and bloom and fill the air with their enchanting scent. Enough of this. It is time to go. We get to our feet and shiver and shake our coats like dogs about to be walked. Some of us jump in the air, others bark excitedly. The cat frizzes out to twice its habitual size, eyes as big as silver coins. Onwards. We hoist the luggage onto our shoulders and set off. Our boots creak and leave curious tracks in the sand. Each of us, in turn, secretly glances back to confirm that the whale is no longer there.

chapter 93 - looking for signs
It is Sunday and we are walking through the countryside. This is an agreeable enough combination: us, countryside, Sunday, … but suddenly we are struck by the unwelcome feeling that all we have done in our lives has come to nothing. Why we should be struck by this feeling just now is a mystery to us, but who are we to question when feelings should or should not strike? Who are we to intervene? And this is all part of the feeling, this feeling that we are simply pawns in some great and all-consuming game. To make matters worse, we cannot say for sure where we are going, or better said, we know where we are going but do not know how to get there. The cat is flicking along on its stick legs, just ahead of us, occasionally arching and springing into the roadside grass, but even this is of little consolation for us. We soon discover that our shirts are buttoned in the wrong holes and that one of us is wearing boots on the wrong feet, that is to say, the wrong boots on each foot. What's more, it is well past midday and we are yet to write a song, or even think of a title for one. It is going to be "one of those days". We can tell. Worst of all, we have not been able to successfully deal with the whale. Each of us turns back surreptitiously to see if it is following. We know from experience that at times like these the best thing to do is to look forwards and outwards, that is to say, to not dwell within. We strive to do this, we really do. We put our minds and bodies to it, we call up our conviction and courage and other things. All to no avail. Then, lo and behold, like a gift from the heavens, we see a flock of small birds rising from the trees and spreading in the sky like an agile and extremely energetic cloud, wheeling this way and that and making different shapes that we are sure we recognise. "Look", says one "it's shaped like a mule", "yes, and now like a bottle popping its cork, and now a knife, or is it a corkscrew?" "Yes," says another, "and now its like a perfectly formed heart that splits in two and dissolves into the air." The flock of birds takes the shape of an arrow and speeds away from us, thus indicating the direction we must follow. We take a deep breath and put one foot in front of the other.

chapter 94 - obscure object of our desire
We are staring down, watching our feet fall on the clay of the road. It could be a question of posture, the result of the force of gravity and the weight we are carrying. We have accumulated many things along the way that we do not need. We are like whirlpools or magnets and not far behind us you might be able to hear the rattle and clatter of bric-a-brac, cutlery, odd tools and stolen furniture. We collect sugar cubes from cafés, coasters and toothpicks, our pockets bulge with bars of hotel soap and complimentary condoms. Even so, we never have enough, are always on the look out for something more; an ostrich feather, a platypus purse, an emu egg, four pairs of whale skin trousers, that is to say, pairs of whale skin fore trousers, … of foreskin whale trousers, … we mean … pairs of whale foreskin trousers. You know what we mean, you want some too, and anyway, the obscure object of our desire is irrelevant. It's the wanting itself that is troubling us now. Why are we never satisfied? Why so much want and need? And while we are in the mode of asking questions, why are we so sensitive today? We put it down to the play of the planets, that and the interplay of the weather in our hair. We bunch our brows and trundle along with this additional weight, forgetting completely our lateness for the appointment with the doctor. Driven by hunger alone we decide to lighten our load. At this current pace we will not reach the restaurant till nightfall. We are weakened by the thought of such a thing. We veer off the road and into a field where we stash everything that we are carrying in the hollow trunk of a large tree. This is not the first time we have done this and undoubtedly it will not be the last. We make our way back to the road with the children, of course, clinging to our backs and satisfied smiles wiped across our faces. Beneath the turbulent mulberry sky we trot anew, our heads and bodies as light as air. We hold hands as we go as this gives us the added impression of the custard road passing beneath us more quickly. Ahead of us now we see the rocky bluff and then the sea -uncannily glowing brighter than the sky now- foaming at the island's edge. We see the rickety line of fisher folk houses running down into a cove. Our spirits lift. Our stomachs gurgle in unison and our mouths water. We lift our skirts and trouser legs and break into a run, sprinting towards the calming of this want and hunger.

chapter 95 - our aim is true
We have the target fixed in our sights. Our aim is true. Our boots are the colour of the clay road and rattle with its stones. As we climb the hill we are met by people coming the other way. They have their jackets slung over their shoulders and are ambling along in an unhurried manner that suggests they have eaten well, possibly too well. Our pace quickens, our spirits lift further, then sink. What if they have eaten the kitchen bare, drunk the bar dry? What if they have taken the food from our mouths? Children are at the side of the road, sticks and stones in hand, finally freed from the constraints of the restaurant table. Our pace increases, out of anxiety, and in case the children might think it fun to throw those stones at us. It would not be the first time.

chapter 96 - infinite distraction
We get to the top of the hill and admire the surroundings; gulls gliding on the breeze, waves surging in composed and strong, the cottages of fisher folk lined up along the cove, the boathouses with their wooden ramps running down to the gripping turquoise sea. As those waves come in they wrap around the rocky edge. There is a stiff wind blowing, playing havoc with our outfits and hair. We stand there on the road and take a photo of our insignificant selves lost in this overwhelming scene. Then we lay down our instruments and climb right down to the water's edge, gripping the rocks and each other for fear of falling in. We squat there, peering down at the great distance between the sea and the land, staring down at the urchins and starfish, at the barnacles and scavenging crabs, as the water draws in and then out again, and throngs of weed rake back and then forth. By reaching out and dipping our hands into the water we can momentarily enter a short distance into this magical aquatic world. We do this, then, when we least expect it, are taken by an unexpected urge. Even though the sun is dropping its late burnished gold and the evening chill is soon to come sweeping in, despite this, we stand at the edge of the rocks, where the land ends and the sea begins, we stand there on one leg and then the other, slipping off our boots. We unbuckle our belts and slip off our garments. We stand there, naked and exposed to the elements, pale and shivering, taut and quivering, breathing short sharp breaths as we lower ourselves into the water. Is it tantalising, or is it torture? Are we excruciated or electrified? We scratch our hands across the face of the water and watch the pearly drops fall from our fingertips. The warm air rushes from our lungs us as we submerge and swim frog-stroke, out across the waves, skin pulled tight, nipples pricking. And like this we swim in formation round the point to where the water grows dark with weed, depth and deception. One of us duck-dives, submerges and swims towards the sea floor. The rest of us do the same and follow, with each stroke caressing the feet and toes of the one ahead. And down and down we go, down to where the water is the colour of tea and the rocks and weed have lost all personality. The light of the world is a dim glow above us, our pallid forms streaking through schools of silvery fish and squid. We reach the deepest part where lobsters are swimming horizontally and self-assured, claws groping ahead. Is there really such a need for air, such a need to undo what we have done, to retrace our strokes and steps, to backtrack, to surface once more?

chapter 97 - out of our element
Only time will tell. We glide and linger down there, playing hide and seek among the kelp, not at all perturbed by the presence of the curious, a gathering of octopuses and other cephalopods, unashamedly eyeing us and changing colour from brown, to blue, from cherry red to violet. What an effect we are having on these surprisingly intelligent creatures, and what good taste they have in pausing there on the sea floor this afternoon to watch us clumsily toss and tumble, completely out of our element, cheeks bulging, bubbles escaping from our nostrils. What are we really doing down there, you may well ask. Are we escaping from something? Are we exploring new territory, breaking new ground? Are we briefly slipping out of our earthly mode to yearn once more for that elusive otherness? We pause for a moment to take mental note of the advantages of our recent behaviour: 1) Being out of your element can be exhilarating (we are breathless), 2) It is recommendable to see things from a different angle once in while, to look under the table, lie on the floor, hang from a tree, get into the sea and look out, 3) Sticking your belongings behind a rock and running around naked is good for the circulation (try it some time), 4) Haven't you ever wondered how fish really live? 5) Does it really make an iota of difference what we do or do not do? Enough of mental notes. Our eardrums are throbbing and lungs imploding. We turn our faces up, to where we really belong. We climb the invisible ladder towards the shimmering light.

chapter 98 - synchronising strokes
We break the surface, shooting spray from our blowholes, treading water and taking our bearings. The island appears to be floating and rocking on the water, while behind us a sheet of sea stretches to the edge of infinity. Our minds boggle and our teeth chatter. Our fingertips and toes have wrinkled to sultanas. We have cramps in our feet and other parts. Our yelps, cries and splutters are as pure and keen as splashing water, gleam like the golden leaves of sun sprinkled across the water. Then from behind us, flying up over the bluff, comes a curious and antiquated aircraft. It is apparently a helicopter. A man in a dark suit is leaning out of the cockpit with a loudhailer. As the helicopter flies overhead we see that this man is in fact Marcello Mastroianni, shouting to us and waving his free arm. Realising that it is Marcello we are understandably concerned for his safety. What if he should fall? "Hang on", we are tempted to call up to him. The helicopter passes right over us, banks and turns to the left then comes right back at us, lower this time. Marcello is calling to us and waving franticly, what he is saying, we cannot ascertain. We speak many languages, but unfortunately not Italian. He appears to be directing us in some way, making breaststroke motions with his arms, indicating how and where we should be swimming. Are we to synchronise our strokes and maintain some kind of formation? We give each other baffled looks and with great difficulty shrug our shoulders. This treading water is not as easy as it looks. Could this be the shooting of our latest video? Is it all the work of our agent, muse, mentor and artistic director, Mariona Bolaño? Has the doctor had a hand in it? The helicopter banks and turns again but this time maintaining altitude and flying away, back across the island, from where it has come. We are of course somewhat deflated, searching the bluffs and headland for cameras on tripods, for clapboards clapping and storyboards scattering among the rocks. However, the only movement to be seen is that of washing flapping on a line and a couple of northbound gulls, beating against the wind and making little progress. We head for the shore, our imaginations grinding. What kind of soundtrack would best suit such a scene?

chapter 99 - making appearances
Finally (and at long last) we walk through the restaurant door for our rendezvous with this self-proclaimed doctor. We make a disorderly line at the cash register, hair tussled and damp, clothes crumpled, laces undone, glassy-eyed, our lips blue and teeth still chattering. Understandably, all eyes are on us, and all of our eyes are on them. We are feeling hungry and distracted today and desire nothing more than a table to sit down at, to be waited on by a softly-spoken and amiable waiter, to be brought something hot and tasty, though not too much of either. Is that too much to ask for? Our eyes sweep from one side of the restaurant to the other, causing the assembled customers to slide their chairs and themselves closer to tables, to tuck in napkins more tightly, to pile bags and coats on available chairs, to avert all children's eyes to the tablecloth, etc. A subtle (and not disagreeable) hush settles in the room. Through the picture window we can see the sea that we have just been in, gunmetal blue and infinitely touching and moving. But we are no longer there. We are here now and there is just one table that looks vaguely occupy-able. It's a table for four, five at a squeeze, and currently occupied by just one. The doctor.

chapter 100 - who can blame us
The doctor is at the table, head down, polishing off a dessert. His brick red face looks to be running a temperature. He is wearing a dark-as-night shirt and electrically blue leather trousers, too small for him now, no longer possible to fasten. On close inspection we notice that he has run a colour rinse through his short and now fluffy hair, giving his head a new coppery aura. He turns his head to us without straightening his thick neck, giving us an awkward sideways look. He puts down his spoon and waves his hand at us unenthusiastically. We edge forward, not sure whether to read this wave as an invitation or a dismissal. We are simple folk and not always punctual, today less so than most. We have been carried away on unpredictable currents, dispersed on fickle breezes, caught up with the grist of this earthly mill. Who can blame us if we let ourselves go occasionally, tossing the prickles of caution to the four winds? It is our prerogative and we will continue to do so. No insult intended. Nevertheless, heads turn as we make our way through the restaurant to the doctor's table. His hand is stuck immobile in the air, at the end of its wave. His head is inclined, still looking at us, staring at us, taking us all in, these four washed up individuals, these four peculiar seasons, buzzing with erratic pent up energy and limitless lethargy, filled to the brim with whimsy and wine, boasting both the creases of experience and the ever-fresh, low-maintenance beauty of youth, albeit no longer in equal proportions. Tis a delicate balance we keep, a devious rope we walk.

chapter 101 - we
The doctor wipes his face with his napkin and raps the spoon down on the dessert plate. We patiently wait for the first topic of conversation to come to mind, hands clasped on the table before us.

Doctor: I've finished my dessert.
Us: So we see.
Doctor: I thought you weren't coming. It's very late. I've ordered my coffee.
Us: Excellent.
Doctor: Are you hungry? Perhaps you can still order something.
Us: Well, yes. On and off. It comes and goes. We can't decide if we are hungry or queasy.

The doctor shrugs. So much for his bedside manner. A waiter comes. The kitchen is closing but there are still a number of dishes that we could order should we want to. The waiter quickly runs through the list of available dishes. His memory is enviable. We order many things. He hurries off to the kitchen and bangs his way through the sprung swing doors. We talk amongst ourselves to loosen our tongues. We unbuckle belts in anticipation.

#1: Well, that's that.
#2: What did you order?
#1: I don't know. What language was he speaking?
#2: No idea. Can't remember.
#3: All very surreal.
#4: Yes, you're not making much sense either. And you look off colour, slightly unreal. What did you order?
#3: A glass of water and a large aspirin. Can I borrow your knife and fork? I don't have cutlery.
#1: I'm having difficulty following this conversation. I'm feeling out of synch. What about you?
#2: Out of focus.

Doctor: Did you have a good swim? I was watching you. I saw you swimming.
Us: Yes, thank you. We had a very nice swim.
Doctor: Please, tell me. There is something I have been meaning to ask you.
Us: Feel free.
Doctor: Why is it that you refer to yourself as we all the time?
Us: Pardon?
Doctor: We, … you say we. I can't see anybody else here but you, … the one of you. What's with the we?

chapter 102 - what we talk about when we talk about us
Those of us at the table look around the restaurant incredulously. This is far worse than we could have imagined. And here we were looking for a confidant, for neutral ground to stroll on, for an ear to bend and a sofa to lie on. Now this, without a hint of warning, without even a mention of the things that are really bugging our minds -think about horses galloping amongst the midnight waves, think about the woman who carries her head in her arms, think about what we found at the bottom of our instrument cases, think about the fucking whale. We look this doctor straight in his good eye and draw his attention to the fact that if we are not all present at any particular time it is no cause for alarm. We are often not all there, we explain, so what? We don't keep tabs on each other day and night. Don't even keep tabs on ourselves. What on earth would we do that for? What a surprising game the doctor is playing with us today. What could he possibly be up to? We ask for and are given confirmation of the fact that the doctor has only ever seen one of us (which one, we do not dare to ask). In response to this we explain that the members of our ensemble are obviously very close, and that perhaps this is what is confusing him, the blur that we make as we rush by, the way we bend light and sound waves that strike us. We apologise in case we are confusing the doctor. The doctor denies being confused. We all regret and then promptly justify being confusing. Not an inch of ground is given or taken. We make no progress at all. The doctor pinches his nose in a professional kind of way, in the way he does to show his patients that he is merely human like the rest of us, that at times it all gets too much. He plants his elbows on the table and looks us in the eyes. He suggests that we resume this particular conversation at a later date. Our food is about to arrive and he does not wish to aggravate our indigestion. We give each other knowing looks. Nudges are exchanged under the table. We sit there with our spoons and forks raised in anticipation.

chapter 103 - help yourself
In all fairness, the conversation soon takes a turn for the better, a more agreeable path. (We note in our diary how food greases the tracks to well-being.) We break formation and scatter, hide and seek, cutting arcs then figures of eight in the air before falling into position once more, settling back on our chairs. It is sometimes advisable to just let it all slip by, to grow with the grass, to rise and fall with the tide, especially at this time of life. We hedge our bets and clarify our stances, then unruffle our heavy feathers and get down to idle chatter like a cage full of euphoric budgies. We touch on many interesting topics; yarn spinning and grape skinning, bungee jumping and truffle hunting, the sexing of chickens, cuttlefish psychology, the art of hypnosis, the politics of hope, the secret life of violins, pen chewing, how to remove stains from tablecloths, squaring the circle, etc, etc. and really, getting down to brass tacks is what we sometimes like best. During this most amicable of conversations the doctor discreetly slides a self-help brochure on multiple personalities across the table at us, and we, in turn, discreetly slip it back in his direction.

chapter 104 - it takes one to no-one
As the sun slips down to the windowsill and into the passion fruit afterglow, the sea takes on more sombre tones. We pick our teeth, trim our nails and gently massage our scalps and soles. We are warm now and well-fed, pink of cheek and clearly in a more receptive frame of mind. Placing fingers to chins we ponder the good doctor's persistent interest in our mission and movements, alike. We smile at him and he smiles at us, and his real intentions are suddenly revealed. Are we not all but branches supported by the same trunk, that is to say, fish in the same stream, tarred with a similar brush, we mean, sewn with standard stitches, that is to say, of the same matter and consistency, popes of the same parish, weeds that have pushed their fuzzy heads up through the very same plot, fallen from the same basket, come down in the same shower, residents of the one rock, players of the same tune, peddlers of common wares? Is that not the case? After all is said and done, our ensemble is built on the solid stone of collaboration. We polish a spoon and quickly flash a Morse code message with the last rays of sun to our manager on the mainland. Mariona Bolaño does not reply, but then, … she is not the replying kind. We picture her busy with her motorcycle maintenance, her hands black with grease and hair scraggly as cemetery grass. We see her look in our direction and nod in agreement. We lean forward in our chairs. "Doctor", we say. "We have the pleasure to inform you that your application has been accepted." We pause, giving him our warmest smile. "What instrument do you play?"

chapter 105 - the shock of the new
We surprise even ourselves. What joy. What inspiration. The doctor undoes one or two buttons more and opens his shirt to reveal an impressive thicket of body hair and a stethoscope hanging around his neck. "Always be prepared," he says, giving us a wink with his finger in the air. We nod in smug agreement. Yes, we always have our "children" close at hand, strapped to our shoulders or nestled under our chair; the instruments of our vocation, our weapons of infinite distraction, our shields and swords, cleaving space and time to make way for "that which we do". We can't help ourselves -that is to say- we cannot avoid it, can't ever have enough, be satisfied and do not wish to be saved. We lean close to the doctor and confide in him that we are like Rumpel-frigging-stiltskin, with this ability of ours to spin gold from straw and create otherness from the thinnest of air. The doctor is clearly impressed, flushing with the excitement of it all, dizzy with the realisation that he is about to be tossed into the melting pot and that his former self will never be seen or heard of again.

chapter 106 - striking chords
And so, in this way we increase the circumference of our inner circle. We can grow if we want to. We can change our number and shape. We can adjust our stance and modify our swagger. We are experienced synchronised swimmers, seasoned contortionists and crafty escape artists. The light outside has dulled and the white walls of houses glow, as if with moonlight. We get to our feet and hitch up our trousers. We strap spurs to our boots and gather up our belongings. Tis time to hit the road, time to raise dust and shift gravel. We cannot, it seems, stay in one place for too long, cannot resist the call of the wild. We are driven, forever releasing the brake. We must keep moving. Our feet itch and our fingers fidget. We need to have the road unfolding before us, to have our fingers on the strings, to be striking one chord and then another. Do not ask us why, as we do not know. We lack philosophical leaning, are more interested in the honey that the bee makes than what it could possibly mean to be a bee. Is being a bee inherently as satisfying as not being a bee? We can but guess. Does the bee love the flower, and the flower the bee? We presume so. Do bees really think about the repercussions of their toil? Who knows. Do they belong to a union? What do they make of the monarchy? We are at a loss to say. Our minds are lazy and our hearts ablaze. We link arms and waltz sideways out the double doors, into the gently settling dusk, into the delicate and poignant air of what the future holds for us. Has anybody seen the cat?

chapter 107 - stuffing rags into bottles
We walk out into the light of dusk, our eyes on the island's edge. Tis a relentless task, forever looking ahead, this putting of one foot in front of the other. The doctor looks at his watch. He is one of these people who looks at his watch at regular intervals without knowing exactly why. Who are we to judge? We are more concerned right now with the disc of moon rising out of the ground and troubling us with its know-all way. The cat is missing. We have a boat to catch, because we are leaving this island, as we are ending this tale. We have our belongings to retrieve from a hollow tree (don't ask which) in a field (don't ask where). Out of habit we set ourselves impossible objectives (don't ask us why), irrational aims. We live on dreams and hot air, protagonists of our own shambolic play. It does not please us to present ourselves with a list of things to do. But there we have it. We have done just that. Can we not even trust ourselves? To top it all off a song is due, that is to say, overdue. We are yet to write a song this day. We sit on a rock and take out a pencil. No time like the present. We stalk syllables and words, mosquitoes and moths and other flying creatures with our penetrating look. We muse on our calling. We call on our muses. We pull out stops, unlatch gates and open windows. We stuff rags into bottles and place makeshift candles all the way along the ill-lit landing strips of our imaginations, waiting, always waiting for that elusive illumination, that inspiration that we so desire, that spark that ignites us.

chapter 108 - oh yes
Oh yes, we beckon muses. We sit there like idiots waiting for them to fill our empty heads. Why bother, we hear you call. Why not leave them that way? What will be, will be. Why clutter this overly busy world with further notions and half-blown ideas? What good can it do to call on those muses? You know how they make you feel, how they leave you dizzy and distressed. Children playing in the dust on the road before us suddenly look up with challenging eyes, as if to say, surprise us, give us something that we do not already have. And that's all it takes for us to start all over again, searching our pockets for a place to start, for an envelope or tampon wrapper to write a song on. We would kill for a sharp pencil, for one that captures quickly and clearly those epiphanies lurking out there in the fields and the groves and the undergrowth. We fumble on the ground looking for suitable rocks that you could sharpen a pencil with or perhaps a piece of flint to make a frigging spark. Quickly, I think I have something. In a desperate state of mind we scratch incoherent hieroglyphics in the dirt in an attempt to describe some feeling that we have, or once had. It is of no use. You can't make these things come if they don't want to. They are mules with backs arched and hooves planted. They are caves with no whispers, void of light. Let's be practical now. We throw the fucking pencil away and set off looking for our possessions, which we stuck in a tree here, or over there, or was down that way? It all begins and ends with a song, but right now we do not have one.

chapter 109 - being driven
So we have to live with that, the fact that we cannot always make the pegs fit, cannot always find the missing piece. If we were carpenters, we would be able to fashion just about any-frigging-thing out of a lump of wood. If we were boat builders, we would be capable of building something that floats, something that glides across currents and cuts through waves, something elegant, light but strong, crafted and loved by the sea and sailor alike. But carpenters we are not. We set off in all directions looking for our paltry possessions, randomly concealed in the trunk of some decayed tree. If only we had dropped a trail of crumbs, or our homing instincts were as precise as those of the short-tailed shearwater, the humpback whale, or the common swallow (just to mention a few). But alas, our radar is purely fictional and our sextons clouded and unhelpfully uncalibratable (no alternative spelling suggested). Instead of pinning down our position, we stare up at the stars and stumble into things: a fence post, a ditch, derelict plough, distraction, disillusionment, each other. You name it. We regroup and slap each other in the face. What could we possibly need possessions for? We have the children strapped to our backs. We have each other. What more could we possibly want? It is only then that we notice that one of us has our return boat tickets stuck to her shoe. We point the doctor in the direction of his car, and set him on his way with strict instructions to get the hell back over here. He is not afraid of driving, and we, in turn are not afraid of being driven.

chapter 110 - the unbearable lightness
We give up the search and sit on a log, recalling days when we had pipes and smoked them. Oh, it wasn't that long ago, time being an elastic thing that stretches and contracts according to one's point of view and intentions. We have brushed with physics. We have swotted in that damn university of life, staying up late alone in libraries, down in the bike sheds too where it was too dark to breathe and our company dubious and delightful. Come what may, fast or slow, we do not expect time to be steady and constant. Why should it be? We are not. We see the doctor coming over the hill. He is behind his car, nearly horizontal, panting and pushing it along the gravely road, a Morris Minor of all things. Now where on earth did he get that? Wasn't he driving a Seat or an Audi or some such thing? We cannot be sure, our visual memory is impaired and our knowledge of horseless carriages patchy. It's a Morris Minor, of this we can be sure. The doctor turns to us, grinning with the effort. He can't afford to lift a hand to wave.

chapter 111 - learning our lessons
Now this is terribly like a dream, we know that, decidedly dreamlike. We must, however, describe things as they really are. Minute by minute the inkling of dusk intensifies and thickens all around us. Stars begin to prick through and enliven, following the lead of the evening star. We get to our feet (How often have we done that lately?) and amble over to where the doctor and his jalopy have come to rest. We see that the car is in a dilapidated state, all trim and ornamentation gone, having fallen off, disintegrated or long been pilfered. The sea air and corrosive sands of time have relentlessly eaten at the panels from inside out and left them with a very bad case of acne. The tyres, no longer capable of holding air, are stuffed with grass, tufts of which can be seen protruding where tyre meets rim. We throw our hands in the air in despair. But this is not the car you had before, we exclaim. To which the doctor quickly confides that he was not able to pay our restaurant bill and has been forced to trade his previous car with the restaurant owner for this miserable specimen. Serves us right, we privately reflect, for being so god-dam stingy. We note the doctor's considerable generosity and devotion to our cause. He is apparently an avid follower of the Dalai Lama. Judge your success by what you had to give up in order to get it. We take this as our lesson for the day. What is a day without a lesson?

chapter 112 - growing sentimental
We dawdle and ponder, deliberate and wonder, wandering circles around the car and willing it to life. We have done this before. Why can't we do it a second time? Are miracles numbered? Are they finite and rationed out at birth? Do we somehow earn or deserve them? Or do they fall on us in a random kind of way, like flowerpots or rain? It is obviously that time of the evening, that time for chewing cud and dropping dung. But alas, we reluctantly remind ourselves that we have a boat to catch. How terribly conventional of us to consider timetables and schedules and let such things impose on our peace of mind. But there you have it. That's just what we do. We stand there and think of the lives we have across the sea and in other cities, the homes we live in and our lovely ones. We gaze longingly in that direction (some looking one way and others, another), and our eyes momentarily glisten. Tis getting late and we are growing sentimental.

chapter 113 - stroking luck
We did not worry about chapter 13, so why should chapter 113 cause us alarm? We are not hyperventilating or superstitious. Numbers only have significance because we endow them with it. Without us they are nothing, just squiggles on the page. How can you expect us to believe that some of them are better than others? We will not be drawn into that kind of illogical rant. However, it must be noted that some of us are all for getting this chapter over with quick smart, while others are still surreptitiously looking over shoulders to see if that whale is following. And has anyone seen the cat? (Which is black.)

chapter 114 - our bleating hearts
Does it have an engine, someone shouts, jeeringly. There is no steering wheel, another observes. We do little to hide our reservations about the doctor's recent acquisition. If only Marcello would return in that flying machine of his. Is that too much to ask for? Apparently it is. Well, you know what they say, beggars can't be choosers. (There must be a banal saying such as this for just about any occasion. We feel them there on the tips of our tongues, fingers and other parts.) Alas, we know from experience that where there's a will there's a way, but nobody is game now to open their mouth to say such a thing in case more vacuous formulas accidentally spill out with it. The doctor has the bonnet of the car up, and his shirt open. He is placing his stethoscope here, there and everywhere while looking heavenwards. Strange rattle here, he notes. Unusual wheeze, or is it a whir? Who are we to say? The engine certainly isn't running and we are reluctant to lean over and look inside only to discover that there isn't even an engine there. We marvel at the doctor's powers of diagnosis. We knew that there was something about him that we liked. One of us has already got her shoe off and is indicating a troublesome bunion. Another has come across an itch that needs urgent attention. We are suddenly all hands, prodding and probing ourselves for a part of us that ails and that he could possible fix. Finally, in unison we stand there clutching our hearts, these great organs of elation and discontent. No end of material there, for hypochondriacs like us.

chapter 115 - boats rock
So, here we stand, hands on chests, looking in the direction of the port. Always this feeling of missing the boat. And over there on the mainland, those streets we stroll, those lips and cheeks we kiss, those laces we tie and noses we wipe, and a hollow in a pillow just waiting for our head. And there's an emptiness in a bed somewhere, some in the middle and others on the edge. To find our way back we have dropped crumbs, screwed-up tissues, bounced cheques and spent matches, leaving a trail bobbing on our wake. The boat is moored and waiting, a fact that stirs our yearnings and tugs at our shirttails. Tis waiting, that boat, and gently rocking on the swells, impatient to be off. The first passengers may already be climbing aboard, seeking out a corner in the lounge to huddle in, or cuddle in, or a table to gamble away those last remaining coins. We should be there with them, spreading our bedding, studying our charts and plotting out the course. Later, on the floor, we'll all be rolling round together, rocking with the boat, all equal then, the dancers and the drivers, the strings and the horns, the singers and the strummers, the jugglers and the tumblers, across the sea all through the night, some of us tossing and turning in infernal fore-sleep, others turning green. Travel could well be overrated.

chapter 116 - time tells
Doctor: Oh, really. That's enough. Do we have to go on about all that?
Us: All what?
Doctor: You know what I'm talking about.
Us: Doctor, this has been charming it really has.
Doctor: Yes, we don't doubt it in the least.
Us: We?
Doctor: Oh, don't pay attention to me. It's merely something I picked up along the way.
Us: We understand. We are forever bending over to pick things up, bus tickets (perhaps still valid), dropped fillings, gems fallen out of rings, ring-pulls, things that could be coins, coins that could be things. Eyes aren't what they used to be. We all go to seed in the end, run to ruin. But hey, ain't that the way.
Doctor: We have each other!
Us: Occasionally.
Doctor: Yes, but you are leaving now. Are about to say farewell. I have no ticket for your boat. You must know that. Everybody goes in different directions.
Us: We do.
Doctor: And you are about to say goodbye, are about to leave.
Us: We are.
Doctor: And I will miss you … all (visible signs of strain when he says "all"), I really will.
Us: Yes, we're fond of you too, dear doctor. We must thank you for your intriguing company.
Doctor: You're welcome. No doubt we'll all get over it.
Us: Get over it?
Doctor: Yes. Before I was at ease and now I am at attention. It's off-putting. Disturbing. And now I have lost my car, and you are leaving me with this. (He points disparagingly at the wreck.)
Us: Ah. Well, you know. One thing leads to another. See this hulk you have ended up with as a stepping stone, a missing piece to the puzzle. Sit over there for a while. Stare long and hard at it until you appreciate it.
Doctor: I'll try.
Us: Ah yes, … trying. We'd forgotten about that.
Doctor: But tell me. Have you done what you set out to do? Have you found what you were looking for?
Us: Well, no. It's not about finding things.
Doctor: No?
Us: No, it's not about that. We like to see what happens next, that's all. We like to see things happen. Only time will tell. Do you have a cigarette? Ours appear to be soaked right through from that swim.

The doctor pulls a packet from his rolled shirtsleeve and offers us his last cigarette. We gather round and warm our hands on the small but stoic flame of his lighter. Ah, the small flames that flicker on through our days and nights.

chapter 117 - don't look back
As a farewell gesture we sit the doctor down in the front seat of the car and prop ourselves against the trunk or boot or whatever you wish to call it, to push him off, to set him on his way. Isn't this the least we could do? The doctor has ingeniously strapped a pair of goat horns to the steering column, to where the wheel once was. It is not the safest of arrangements, but there you have it, this is what he has done. He is seated on the rusty frame of the front seat with his legs spread, one foot resting on the gearbox and the other stuck through a hole in the door. There is no floor left up front, all crumbled away. He has the horns in his hands and is looking ahead through the windscreen, expectantly. Oh, how he loves to look ahead. And don't we all? Through the windscreen we see a sideways sickle moon smiling down at us from the blank-faced night.

chapter 118 - the end of the roll
Push! everyone calls, and push we do, moaning and groaning at first till we get those reluctant grass-filled wheels slowly turning, and then a little faster. Before we know it (curious expression) we are rolling along at a very respectable rate down these roads that we have begun to know so well. We see -through the back window- the doctor's head bobbing, happily as Larry. And we too are happily as Larry. Be it early or late, be us coming or going, rising or falling, however you want to name it, we are happy at this moment and cannot imagine ourselves put in another place and doing another kind of thing. Yes, we are simple folk in this respect and strive to avoid the rabid claws of envy. A cricket chirps, a frog burps, a nightingale, warbles. We breathe in the crisp evening air, feeling fortunate, fair of face and favoured. And what does it matter if we are various or if there is just the one of us. We reserve the right to multiply and divide at whim. Do not stick pins in our wings and anchor us to a piece of cork. We are unclassifiable, steeped in otherness. You won't find us in any book, and you will not find a statue of us in a park somewhere. You will just have to take our word for it, that we have existed at all. And now even this roll we are writing on is running out. So we must be quick, must be brief and concise, no room left for rephrasing or procrastinating. We must hit the nail on the head, get to the point, take the bull by the horns, take the ball and run, one foot in front of the other, like we've always done, and always will, till our bones lie awkward in the ground and our songs rise from the lips of others.

chapter 119 - the end
#1: What's that sound?
#2: I thought it was your stomach.
#1: No, over there. Like the throb of engines, the ferry coming to fetch us.
#2: Now that I'd like to see.
#1: Or the beat of Marcello's wings, … I mean rotors.
#4: The beat of Marcello's wings. I like it. I'll note that down.
#2: Too late. No paper left. Not even for emergencies.
#3: Pity. I could use a toilet roll right now.
#4: They say that leaves do, but I suppose a fistful of dry grass is just as good.
#1: Who's they?
#4: No idea.
#2: Yes, unfortunate. Nothing to write that song on.
#3: It's getting louder.
#4: The song?
#3: No, the sound.
#2: It's the ferry, all right. I can hear it now. It's coming across the island to get us.
#3: What IS this? Fitz-frigging-carraldo!
#2: Now I'd like to see THAT.
#1: Lack of paper. What kind of excuse is that? I mean … really.
#2: Yes, we've written songs plenty of times without paper before, scratched them into our skin with a nail.
#1: Yes, written them on a dirty car with a finger.
#2: Of course. Made them out of melting snow, out of mud and straw, out of toothpicks and an apple core.
#4: And paper-mâché.
#1: Or last week's mash and a bit of mince.
#2: Or empty pea cans and string. Or nothing at all. That's often the best.
#4: Yes, anything goes.
#3: That's all very well but I have a rather pressing urge. And the boat is getting closer.
#4: When you gotta …
#1 and #2: You gotta …

The doctor, in the front seat, looks back over his shoulder. Hurry up, he calls. We'll never get there at this rate.

chapter 120 - silence
There's a long silence, stretching out before us. Enjoy it. Savour it. They're hard to come by these days. Cost you an arm and a leg. Relax and let it wash over you, leaving you polished and smoothed, as a wave leaves a beach. Take it and treasure it. Cup it in your hand. Hang it on your shoulder. Hug it to your chest. Nestle it on your belly and other parts. Put it under your tongue and let it slowly dissolve. Immerse yourself in it. Let it spread like a drop of oil on water, or the light of a flame in the dark. Allow it to nullify tired metaphors and out-of-work similes, to multiply in your divisions, to tranquillise unease. Let it be a balm on an itch. Lick it off the plate. Sniff it. Smear it all over your skin. Lose yourself in it. Simply dissolve. There, doesn't that feel better?

chapter 121 - from A to B and back again
A: But if the roll has run out, we cannot go on. We cannot record what happens.
B: Of course we can. The roll never existed in the first place, was simply a device, a literary tool we used. Of course we can go on. In fact, it's inevitable. It's in our nature to do so, … and so we do. Do not stutter or stumble or stall one little bit. Do not give in to the niggling fingers of doubt. Stand tall. Walk on. Don't think twice. Do not look down or back, or up. Just take it all in. Make mental notes.
A: Yes, I see. I do. I will.

chapter 122 - the field's wake
Standing on the road we see the doctor coasting away from us in his curious little car. We have given him one final push and he is getting small in the distance, hence the recent silence and this standing in one spot to catch our breath. Really, there is nothing better at times than to catch one's breath, when it has escaped like this and is beginning to stray. There is nothing better than to stand there and draw it back in, filling our cavities with life and light. Over in the distance we hear the throb of engines, the curling bow wave of the ferry as it draws near. What does it matter if it has left the sea now and is crossing the fields as we stand here waiting. A good reason for such behaviour it will have, a reason for crossing these fields, these unploughed fields, these fallow fields, limited and fathomable, unlike the sea, finite and frugally fertile. Ah, the earth between our toes, there is nothing like it, its musty silence, moist and warm and welcoming. The throb of engines draws near. We feel the vibration of the propellers churning through the soil, smell the freshly opened furrow of its wake. Bending over we see the shapes of more literary devices, discarded and half buried in the ground. We kick them with the toe of a boot, as if to confirm that they are no longer of use.

chapter 123 - one two three
One, two, three, and we are on our knees. Nothing but broken metaphors down here, fallen hopes and obsolete dreams. We are not going to pray, are simply weak-kneed from the effort of propelling the doctor along, and are now simply wishing to take this scene in from a different perspective. We hear the ferry nearing, … ferrying near. Perhaps that's the bow that we see, cleaving through the night mist and trees, the propellers clawing through the field. We have been surprised in our time, oh yes we have. Been stopped in our tracks, arrested and attested, detested, molested, elected and contested. And here we are once more, drawn to a standstill, hats off, wiping our weepy brows, shading our eyes from the glare of surprise. Is this really happening? We nod our heads. This is what we've been dealt. We must play this hand out, of course we must, this one, and the next, and the next, till we fall down feeble and numb-minded, dead near speechless and practically thoughtless. We are all eyes and ears as the vessel approaches, hands hanging useless at our sides. The ground is shaking some, from the friction no doubt, between hull and hollow and hill. But is this feasible? Are we to believe our eyes and ears, believe the soles of our feet, the pits of our stomachs, our fingertips, the hair at the back of our necks? Is the evidence to be trusted? The night has drifted in to cover us completely, wrapping us in this imminent discovery. The ship sails on towards us, splashing the surroundings with flashes of brilliance.

chapter 124 - chronic delusion
Notebook entry: Hans Rudolf: May 25th, 8.05 pm
Suspect observed travelling in direction of Sant Francesc -having just parted company with various of his party- moving at snail's pace down gentle gradient in unregistered vehicle with no apparent means of locomotion -albeit, feet visibly passing through floor of said vehicle and "walking" on bitumen surface, tyres of less than minimum required depth of tread (and "inflated" with dried grass [presumably illicitly acquired]), bodywork and chassis of said unregistered vehicle in advanced state of corrosion, with evidence of non-factory modifications carried out on steering mechanism, in possession of goat horns (Check records for hunting and firearm licence breeches), with stethoscope worn round neck (Check files for recent surgery break-ins), sporting unnatural hair colour (coppery auburn [a disguise??]), and with expression and general aspect of extreme state of excitement. The remaining members of the gang were similarly noted not far from road, kneeling in field and gazing in direction of fig tree, supposedly under the influence of hallucinogenic substances or chronic delusion.

chapter 125 - this field that we're in
And the ship sails on. Of course it does. They always do. And this one is ploughing its way towards us, furrowing through the fields where till now just rats and moles burrowed and worms drilled their holes, cleaving its way and splashing the surroundings with afore-mentioned flashes of brightness and brilliance and inspiration, the weeds and the scrub alike are vibrating with excitement. Never have we seen such a reaction in brainless things. And those fat-trunked trees are reaching up at the night with their arthritic limbs and fingers again. So where are all those ghosts now, the Melvilles and the Becketts and the Kafkas? Sitting in their haunts, picking over the slimness of their existence, trapped within the pages of the books that they wrote, never to be released? The ground is shaking. Here comes the boat, far bigger than we remember it to be, dragging thunder along behind it. Leaves and fruit and nuts, bird nests and branches are shaken from trees. Our eyes roll and teeth chatter. The children are moaning in their boxes. We grasp hold of clods of earth, to not lose our grip or bearings. Is that the dark sea sweeping in behind the boat, or merely sheets of black plastic animated by immense electric fans, a prop that Frederico Fellini has constructed and directs from up there on the scaffolding. A whirlwind spins about the boat and half hides it in dust and smoke and litter and leaves. Up on deck we see members of other ensembles, staring down at us and waving. They are on their way home. Glad it's not us, they seem to be saying. Someone had to be left behind. We are off now to more pressing engagements, press conferences and private functions, summer festivals, winter hibernations, virtual undoings, government inquiries, tax haven happenings, open plan orgies, meditative retreats with massive advances. In simplicity lies beauty. If you do not aim for triumph, you cannot fail. We are simple folk with simple tastes, just needing a morsel to warm our innards occasionally, a sip to wet our whistles, a tune to hum, a few melancholic chords to strum. The people up on deck wave good bye as the ship slides, rocking port and starboard, all too willing to see us left behind, bobbing in the wake that's slowly spreading across this field that we are in.

chapter 126 - crossing roads
Notebook entry: Hans Rudolf: May 25th, 8.09 pm
Suspects moving erratically about field. Spasms noted. Evidence of paranoia. Or are they dancing? Some have run to one side and the others to another, as if some great force is driving them apart. Medical assistance may be required. (*Remember to update emergency numbers on last page of notebook. **Revise first aid procedures. ***Look for old lifesaving medal and certificate. Do I still have that? ****Check that lifesaving certificates don't expire, and that old procedures still apply … and are advisable. *****Review system of reminders, memos and footnotes.) Moving closer now to be in range of utterances and mutterings. Suspect gibberish. Will take shorthand. About to cross road. Looking right to left, then right again. Nothing coming. Assuming crouch position.

chapter 127 - dust
The ship sails by. It lists considerably while negotiating an acute starboard turn, throwing up a dusty kind of spray that drenches us in filth. Those up on deck are clutching one another and striking heroic poses, in an attempt to stay erect. She's rounding the buoy, someone calls, which of course not one of us understands correctly, given that we are witnessing such a scene from the middle of a field, and are meagrely endowed when it comes to nautical terms. The throb of the engines is deafening as the vessel groans and turns, the rudder cutting an impressive trench deep into the earth. We are suddenly awash in broiling topsoil and substratum, reaching out for each other's hand in case we should be lost there and swallowed up by the ground, never to be seen or heard of again. Perhaps there are worse ways to go. To tell the truth, we have not afforded it much in the way of thought, preferring to immerse ourselves in that which is at hand. That is to say, we tend towards optimism rather than those other isms. We cross our fingers rather than crossing our chests in some futile bid for salvation. We reach out in this blizzard of dirt, floundering in this earthy wash, we reach out and touch fingers, grasp hands and find much comfort there. Of whose hand it is we do not know, and just then do not care. Any hand will do, as long as it is warm and grasping too. It is one of those moments when a slight reassuring squeeze can make the world of difference, can do much more than any number of words could do. We hold hands and bob with other flotsam and jetsam. We float, treading soil, waiting for the dust to settle.

chapter 128 - dirt
And the dust always does settle, eventually, leaving us ashen, clay-coloured and curiously solid. Out of the dust we reappear in that field, holding hands in a circle, resembling a community sculpture in any number of parks, representing the inner circle of life, the strength of community, the dance of spring, or a conspiracy of dunces. Just our eyes shine bright out of this earthenware material that we have become. No urges to dust each other down. What would be the point? Really, one must accept oneself just as one is. To approximately quote Quentin Crisp, why bother telling people that you are a ballet dancer after all those years farming pigs, and now that pig farming becomes you so. And so, coated with soil we are. We collect broken crates from the limits of the field and place them in a neat circle for us to sit on. With a few broken toothpicks and pencil stubs we start a fire and sit there warming our hands, our beautiful china eyes darting this way and that, our clay mouths cracking at their edges as we smile. It's not so bad, being covered in dirt. It really could be becoming.

chapter 129 - our gaze
Animals come out of the darkness. They too have witnessed the unexpected passing of the ship. They walk up behind us and lay their muzzles on our shoulders. The smaller ones lay their muzzles on our knees, and smaller still on the toes of our boots. Such is the need for reconciliation and reflection. These animals, like us, are clay from head to toe, from ear tip to tip of tail, those that have tails. Some are covered in unwelcoming spikes, some are sporting shells, others have nothing to brag of but warts. What does it matter? Who are we to judge? Our gaze is fixed on the thimble-sized fire we have made. It's quality that counts, not quantity. We are well enough transfixed by this meagre flickering flame. It does the trick, has enough strength to gather us around, to hold us in this moment of respite, now that the boat has moved off into the night, perhaps to strike its peril in the hills. We are still and there is no chewing of cud or dropping of dung. We pick splinters from our hands and throw them onto the fire, which is blazing brighter now under the insistence of our gaze.

chapter 130 - the intruder
We gaze into the fire. It has us mesmerised, in its dancing spell. Some of us are feeling small again, are sitting there in our flannel pyjamas at the kitchen stove, our faces brick red, our noses runny, waiting for some ill cut lump of yesterday's bread to turn golden brown at the end of a wire toasting fork. Others of us are as empty-headed as the day they were born. Who knows what the animals are thinking or not thinking and who gives a damn? Either way, there is nothing like fire, in small doses. Some liken its tonic to that of music, others to the restful and hypnotic effect of the sea. The animals continue with their sphincters clenched, their tongues loose and their jaws idle. There is just one ever-so-gentle anonymous breaking of wind, more like a sigh really, and then a rustling kind of sound behind our circular gathering. What causes this sound we can only guess. It begins as tentative fidgeting, soon becomes erratic fiddling, then an insistent and increasingly annoying rattle and tug. Has the cat come back? Could it be the whale? Yet another appearance of the so-called doctor? Someone is clearly meddling at the buckles of one of our children's boxes. Glances are exchanged, glances like knives. From our reverie we fall. You know how particular we are about our children. One of us does an improvised and shockingly effective back flip, landing on top of the intruder and squashing him smack down into that recently tilled soil.

chapter 131 - the in thing
Grovelling and growling, tossing and turning, scratching and burning, a struggle ensues. You know how these things are once they get started, once the wick burns right down and hits the powder, when you get to the end of your tether, suddenly fighting tooth and nail, spitting blood and bits of teeth. All persons and animals present jump on the frigging pile, as if abandoned by a will of their own. Is this a venting of long-held frustration? Some kind of urgent needy fling? Is it intricately wired into our frigging genes? There is punching and pinching, grappling and dribbling, smacking and clapping, knuckles are raw and buckles undone. "It were his fault, whoever he may be," someone mutters in a half-hearted shot at justification. "He were trying to steal our precious things." What difference does it make now, being up to our eyeballs in this all-in thing. Buttons popping, shreds of shirt falling like confetti, fists full of haste and hair, all manner or unruly things. The trees have turned their backs on us, and the moon to a shade of red. The animals, at least, should know better. We, of course, have no shame and are slow in our retreat. But how does one stop such a thing once it has started? Is there a plug to pull, a fuse to pop? Is there a bubble somewhere to burst, reason to be reeled in and newly entertained? We are peaceful at heart, we really are, and put this frantic and unsightly outburst down to some as yet uncharted collective rage. Don't press us more on this. We'll get over it, we really will. We'll be curled up on the end of the bed again soon, purring like smug-nosed pussies, licking our ruffled fur. In the meantime, the intruder is having his face repeatedly thumped into the dirt, causing dust once more to rise annoyingly into the air. "Who are you? What do you want?" it occurs to someone to call. (By now the animals have fled, tails between legs, well and truly ashamed of their participation in such a shabby affair.) The poor thief cannot even speak, merely makes choking sounds and rolls his eyes.

chapter 132 - drawing near to the dawning of reason
We find a rusty bed frame down among the briars. We drag it across the field and tie the intruder down with flax that others of us have miraculously woven, in the meantime. (We do like that word; meantime, the mean, the average, Greenwich and all that, the stick by which all is measured, sticky and mean, the mean, the selfish, the downright nasty, and let's face it, haven't we been just that). We do realise, of course, that this is by no means a definitive solution. Just give us time to think. It could be that this intruder's meddling behind our backs was the product of curiosity, or a type of nervous disorder. We pause and think. We are drawing near to the dawning of reason, to the point of feeling that quite possibly we have erred on the side of martial, that's martial, not marital, the bed aside, the woven flax anchoring his wrists and ankles to the four corners of the frame, looking at this now, we are suddenly struck by the inappropriateness of it all. Aren't we leaving ourselves wide open to misinterpretation? What on earth would a casual stroller-by make of all this? What morbid corners would his or her mind get into? Is it a sex thing that they are doing? Is it some kind of sacrifice? A stag party perhaps? A dare? Are they cannibals? Are they simply crazy? No, … the longer we stand back and look at it, the more we lean on the side of doubt. This is not an appropriate solution at all. This tying down of people is definitely out.

chapter 133 - like sand through our glass
Still we hear the sound of distant ferry engines throbbing on the air. Occasionally, the groan of her steel plates on rock, the hull screeching as it navigates across a ridge. We strain our eyes at the night searching for her silhouette, to no avail. Then that solitary sound fades right away, leaving us with just the hum of blood passing through our veins, that and the singing of crickets, or is it the hiss of tinnitus? Some believe it to be the fizzing of stars, others the buzzing of a bow on violin strings, or a fly trapped behind a paper blind, or alien activity, or a far off didgeridoo, or sand trickling slowly through our glass. We can no longer tell the difference. Some mysteries are never solved, and best left that way. What we do know is that time passes. We can hear it. And the ferry must have reached the sea once more and is cutting through the waves now, released, no longer land bound, joyous and free as a pony in a field of new spring grass, as joyous as morning sun splashed against a forest, or as two lovers naked in a bed. We are diverging, getting off the track. Let us focus now on this situation before us. "We can't leave him tied here to that frame of a bed. What about a chair instead?" someone suggests. There is a round of applause, prudent and appreciative. Thank the stars that someone has a clear head, that someone is holding the line. Here the rest of us are, whittling sticks and spinning whimsy. We untie his hands and feet, stand him up and dust him down. He really is in a dismal state, head hanging, bottom lip rolled out. He'd look just like a scarecrow if it wasn't for his brightly shining eyes.

chapter 134 - making up is so hard to do
#1: Would you like to sit down? You don't look very well.
#2: A bit off colour.
#3: What were you doing there anyway, fondling our instruments? Did you think you could get away with that?
#4: No reply.
#1: Concussion? Conscious but not responding. Someone left the lights on.
#4: …and the door open.
#2: Yep, cat's got his tongue, … and other parts.
#3: Well, actually, he appears to have a rag in his mouth.
#4: Got it.
#1: Anyway, as I was saying. What did you think you were doing?
#2: Are we interrogating him now?
#3: Looks like it.
#4: Not particularly effective.
#1: Par for the course.

We use the rag to clean out his mouth as best we can. We fetch water from a well, splashing that on his face and trickling some into his nostrils and mouth. The intruder is very appreciative of this.

#1: We didn't mean to frighten you.
#4: Frighten him? We very nearly buried him alive. Were using his head as a shovel, … or a pick.
#2: And now we'd like to apologise. It's time we made up.
#3: Far better friends than enemies.
#4: Yes, my friends, in general, are of highly dubious character, a wicked bunch, a disgrace, all higgledy-piggledy, even so, far better them than enemies. Believe you me.
#1: Let me just say, that on behalf of the entire ensemble we would like you to accept our apologies.
#2: Yes, we didn't see you coming.
#3: It was an accident.
#4: And now we're sorry.
#2: Pacifists at heart.
#3: Yes, and if we inadvertently do hurt you again, just … shake your leg.
#4: What is he, a frigging horse?
#1: Or raise a finger. In fact it may be of interest to you all that I worked for a time as a horse dentist in Cunnamulla. Never had any complaints.

The intruder is looking us up and down now in an unappreciative and unflattering way. We will persevere. True to our nature.

chapter 135 - what are you waiting for
My name is Hans Rudolf. But I am not THE Hans Rudolf. I am another one. I am not rich and I am not famous, an "f" Rudolf rather than a "ph" one, Swiss rather than German. I did not invent any surgical mask and I have not directly saved the lives of others, however, indirectly, I may have done. One can only hope. I employ myself in other ways, mostly volunteer work, yes call it that, but rewarding to innumerable degrees. My mother has a modest pension, which she shares with me, but there is not enough of that to cover our needs, so you might as well forget that, if this is why you are captivating me, for your own petty gain. Yes, I am captive. I am your prisoner. I am binded and immobilized, nearly blinded, my expensive dental work thrown into disarray, at your beck and whim, a mere toy, yes, a plaything, a thing that perhaps for you has little value and no feelings, that you can toss around as you like and make your own merriment with, without a single thought or regret, Hans Rudolf, the other one, not THE one that everybody knows about, son of Helga, the good and hard-working librarian, now retired, and right now waiting on my nightly call, waiting for me to call in with my nightly report, waiting, waiting, waiting. What are YOU waiting for? All of you there, smirking at me like cowards. Is there someone waiting for your call? Tell me that, or let me free. Let me be. So what if I was observing you at close range, for the common good, as it turns out. I am self-elected leader of my troop, the eyes and ears of this community, the night watchman. Yes, this is what I stand for, order and law and vigilance and diligence, and above all neatness in all things. And in my defence, this is what I have to say, and there, I have said it. Maybe I am a knight, a hero, maybe mad. Think what you will. I no longer care. Would someone pass me my notebook, please? I have something to write in it and it's over there on the ground, trodden into the dirt.

chapter 136 - insult to injury
"I vote we put the rag back in," says one. "Is he a boy scout;" asks another. "This is not dialogue," another says, "it's diatribe." We have an impromptu council meeting of our own and vote to let the intruder loose. The world can have him. We certainly don't want him. But wait, the black shadow of the cat comes skipping and bounding across the furrows, tail in the air (as ever), and what a welcoming sight that is. Do not ask us why, but we find comfort there in that one-eyed feline surprise. "Why not call it Felicity" someone nearly calls, "tis such a cheerful mite." And how true it is, little Felicity springs to a halt in front of us cocking its head and vibrating its wiry tail in delight. Far better company this emaciated cat than that Heinz Randolph, or whatever his name is supposed to be (above all if he is not THE Heinz Randolph). And how often has a cat or a dog come to the rescue and diverted potential disaster with its simply untainted view of the world, its immaculate timing, benevolence and good manners. How many marriages has a cat or a dog saved? Animals do not tend to interrupt. They sit and listen, for hours on end if need be, perhaps lifting an eyebrow now and then in mild amusement or disagreement, but rarely do they interrupt. And so, the timely arrival of the cat, Felicity, averts a furthering of the none-too-pleasant scene with Harry Randolf, who is sitting there now having taken further offence, for the insensitive lack of comment or applause at the end of his speech, and this unbearable weight of being ignored. How susceptible we are, how insecure and unsure-footed, that a sick kitten can breeze in and set our sails a flapping.

chapter 137 - the shock of the nude
Let us take stock for a moment. What is going on here? Where is this leading us? How did we get this far? And who are we, anyway? Where are we, … and, for that matter, why? We are soon in unanimous agreement that taking stock is a waste of time. It takes us nowhere, gives us nothing that we didn't already have. We vow never to do it again, though we have vowed many a thing in our time and are yet to reap benefits. We form a circle and clasp hands. It has worked before, who's to say it won't work again. Safety in numbness, a bunch of reeds far stronger than a single one. We centre our minds on the here and now. We are in this ploughed field. The boat has sailed -albeit overland- has crossed the island and joined the sea once more -the sea that holds it and rocks it, envelopes it and hurries it along. We have no pending engagements, no bookings, no billings, no debuts, no weddings, christenings or funerals, no funding or foundations, no residency, no rituals to attend, no frills, no fixed address, no tax inspection, no visible means of support, no strings attached. We are alone and free in this world and anything is possible, can and will happen if the mood takes it. We clasp hands and gather forces. Hans Rudolph grudgingly joins in. We are all in this together. What has he got to lose? When is an opportunity like this going to come his way again? We look heavenwards, waiting for the stars to speak to us, for the moon to give us some kind of cue, a sign, a signal, a clue. Have we lost our bearings, lost all momentum? Are we simply lambs that have strayed far from home? From across the field we hear a cough. It is the kind of cough intentionally made, to announce imminent arrival, to avoid a possibly compromising or sensitive scene. We look in that direction. It is the doctor, of course, coming back for more. They always do in the end. *He comes wandering out of the night. He is still holding the goat horns, now detached from the steering column. He is naked, except for the goat horns, which he holds in front of him like a diviner of underworld currents. We reiterate the question. Where will all this lead?

(*Note from the editor: How can he come "wandering out of the night"? Surely the night is all around and he is still in it. Rethink. Clarify.)

chapter 138 - the philosopher's tool
No doubt there is some kind of logic here, some kind of explanation for the things that we see and do, some kind of magic for distilling meaning from our meandering, for nailing down our experiences to make a more substantial thing. (We have tried and find that the wood often splits or that we hit our thumb -and other parts.) Heaven knows we try. We've striven and driven ourselves, have peeped and pried and probed. We have dabbled in clear and murky waters alike, dribbled and drooled over reference books and self-help manuals, all this as if to make some kind of sense of this life we lead. Obviously we are but amateur philosophers and do not have the appropriate tool for more precise research and investigation. Our tool is a multi-use thing, we are polymaths, a Renaissance ensemble, are jacks of all trades, masters of none. We have music. We must be thankful for that.

chapter 139 - real frigging hip
Well aware we are, that much time has passed since we have had the children in our arms and brought them to life, since the children have hypnotised us with their silence and stillness and drawn us into the vortex of their void. We have written many a word about this already but that will not stop us from writing many a more, ad nauseam if need be. And the need does be, if you will permit us to say such a thing. However, right here and now the doctor is coming towards us. He is walking at a zombie-like pace. The nude doctor draws near, horns in hand, holding them like a lyre he is about to strum, like this object has fallen from the heavens and he is overwhelmed by its otherworldliness. The moon has miraculously hit the horizon and bounced right back up again, smiling like a Cheshire cat. This grinning moon is glowing on the doctor's skin. Tis a unique and picturesque scene, him picking up and putting down his feet so gently, like a ballet dancer picking his way through a field of fictitious daisies with great aplomb. Real frigging hip. Some of us start to clap, others look for a comfortable place to sit. It's going to be one of those nights that never end, one of those nights filled to the brim with adventure and misadventure, with surprise and joy, with darkness and spark in equal doses. We search for more tinder to toss on the fire, more sticks and papers and rags. Felicity, the cat, is skittering around excitedly. She does appreciate a roaring fire. Someone takes the chair from under Hans Rudolf and that goes on the blaze as well. He is writing in his notebook and barely seems to notice. We fetch palings and poles, weatherboards and waterbed bases. Onto the fire they go, the fire that leaps in the air with delight, bathing us in its joyful glow.

chapter 140 - this abysmal scene
Notebook entry: Hans Rudolf: May 25th, 9.08 pm
Clear evidence of anarchy. Signposts and other public property misappropriated, disfigured and destroyed. Abysmal scene. Chair snatched from underneath. Pencil confiscated and burnt. Arson. (*Will continue to scratch report in notebook with fingernail.) In company of feral pet, mascot of some kind, stray cat (lacking regulation ID chip). Presence of naked nudist in undressed state -holding apparent satanic complement (twisted phallic icon??). Fearing the worst. All council regulations and by-laws flaunted, ignored or infringed. Moral poverty. Imminent corruption. Possible complete disintegration of society as we know it. (**Theory confirmed. Give them an inch and ...) Lack of discipline. Reason abandoned. Danger of social sphincter control loss. Worst fears confirmed. Clinging to faith, and pending municipal elections. (***Need names. Check against electoral role.) My mission; putting names to these disruptive figures, this pit of discontent. Plunging into darkness, to the bottom of the well. May the force be with me, and my wick remain alight.

chapter 141 - charming harmony
#4: He appears to be praying.
#2: Who?
#4: The spy.
#2: He's wearing a traffic warden's uniform.
#4: A disguise. It's as good as any.
#2: (Sigh) It's incredible the lengths they'll go to.
#4: They're a breed of their own.
#2: But who are "they"?
#4: They don't even know, themselves.

We sit cross-legged around the fire, faces cheery with the blaze. At a short distance is the trench, gouged by the passing ferry, sweeping through the field, the ragged swathe. The doctor is standing by the fire now, in the aura of his glowing ginger body hair, ridiculous smile wiped across his face. We take him by the elbows and sit him down amongst us. He is apparently in a daze and incapable of even the most rudimentary speech or thought. He simple beams at all and sundry, a dollop of dribble hanging from his lip. Nevertheless, we soon tire of lending him our attention. We take the children in our laps, nestle them under our arms or between shoulder and chin, and before we know it they are humming in charming harmony.

chapter 142 - spinning yarn to the outer limits
Is that a flute we hear, wandering the hills and hollows? The pluck and purr of a violin, rustling the underbrush? Those voices we hear. Is that us? To fill time, we hum in chummy harmony, all gone shallow, reflective and ruffling with serendipity. We relax, watching circles spread across our surface. We reminisce. We recline. This soothing music makes us thick, it really does, sedates us and sets us adrift, at the mercy of the elements. We are suddenly recalling that slow waltz on the sea floor with lobsters and squid. We are recalling our Renaissance, re-enacting crucial scenes. There we are, kicking dust down some hickey road. There we are, wading through wilderness, or draped over some pastoral pearl. And there we are in that restaurant, sitting at the table with the doctor, not this one, the other doctor, the one who is self-assured and slightly sly, the one with those intriguingly reflective eyes. There we are sitting in a different field, sun dipping low, its glow catching momentarily in the golden beards of wheat, all beauty and impermanence. Yes, there we are, recalling again. It's what we often do. Of course it is, through no fault of our own. We are recalling the finding of the mule, and its merciless loss, recalling the adoption of the cat. Felicity. And we are recalling the whale (never named), lying outside our cabin door, the ghosts of dead writers lurking in the garden and in the cupboards and cabin rooms. Ah, the cabin rooms. We shake our heads, but this only serves to dislodge more of this wretched recalling, sprinkling uncalled for memories into the air to float about us like dandruff or dance like ash from some fiery field, snowflakes spinning in a winter dream. The air is suddenly full of the stuff, this small stuff the floats. Let it settle in its own time. We keep still to his end, taking turns to comfort the doctor with our arm across his shoulder, this doctor who -not so long ago- accused us of being just one person and not a whole ensemble, as we know ourselves to be. For fear of losing ourselves in indulgent recalling we take turns to comfort the doctor. And sure enough, he quits dribbling and starts to speak. At first we look at each other and shrug. He is of course speaking gibberish. Now, we have all dabbled in gibberish, some of us are quite fluent, have certificates to prove it, others can barely get by. So, we lean close to whisper in his ear, urging him on with this disturbing tale he has begun to tell. You see, he does begin to make some kind of sense. Thank your lucky stars for that. We take turns to comfort the doctor with our arm across his shoulders, urging him on with this disturbing tale, even though the more we hear, the more we realise that we are the ones in need of comforting. We even get to thinking that perhaps we are in the wrong reality. Yes, this is what occurs to us. We mean, how does one know, how does one know that one is in the right reality? And really, could we be better off in another one? But then, thinking about this in greater depth we decide that we have been here in this one for such a long time now that we are not only used to it, but also at times quite agree with it, and what's more, it agrees with us. The feeling mutual. We are rambling, we know. We must concentrate and do our best to follow this strange yarn that the doctor is spinning. Do not go away. Sit here a little longer while we listen to it. Soon we will lean over and whisper it into your ear.

chapter 143 - what the doctor said
Body not in trouble. Naked that is all, and returned to Earth. Clothes confiscated. Beamed up and then down again. I'm sure you get the picture. Cigar-shaped object glowing in the sky, nearing, glowing and nearing, growing near. An orifice opens, releasing that liberating beam, blue grey, blue green, the beam that reaches into his stationary car, he holds up his hands, cups this strange light in his hands, watches as it slips through his fingers and into a pool in his lap, something entirely new, a non-substance, a no matter, this new light has a texture of its own, he is rubbing it between finger and thumb, his inquisitive mind alert, that of a scientist, you know how it is, then he looks up as the full force of it reaches him, snatches him from the car and whips him into the air and up, up to the underbelly of that hovering ship, which is humming in a musical kind of way, he has time enough to register this, before the antechamber hatch doors release and he is sucked inside.

chapter 144 - the beauty within
The doctor goes on at length about the beauty within, about the loveliness of their curves and the luminescence of their skin, waxing lyrical over the delicacy of their touch, the seductive brush of their lips and the maddening flicker of their many tongues as they draw him in to their alien world. Not a word is spoken, as you would expect, as he and they indulge in this mutual exploration. While the doctor goes on at length about the beauty within, the night draws in a short sharp gasp, every stick and blade of grass stands still, crickets detain their rasping song, a feral cat relaxes its hungry grip and lets the mouse slip free, stunned trees lean near, rocky crags and boulders flush.

chapter 145 - newly unfolded wings
Coals have formed. There in the heart of the fire. Lightly dusted with marshmallow ash. The sight of these coals raises our mood significantly, much like the glimpse of a lantern on some stormy night, or the wink of a beacon when lost at sea. We are averting our glances, lost in space, adrift in our recreations of that beauty within as described by the doctor. We dwell on this considerably and at length. Some of us unbutton our blouses, others moisten lips with furtive tongues. Hans Rudolf is scribbling again in that notebook that he no longer has, with a pencil that has long since glowed chimney red and turned to ash. Rudolf licks his finger to turn an imaginary page. What lengths we will go to, to evade the truth. The question of course is lingering centre stage in each and every mind. Can sex ever be safe with unknown species? And what if it occurs at a considerable height above the ground, in a cigar-shaped glowing object with no wings or visible means of support? Is this enough to justify the throwing of all caution to the wind? And thus, we grapple with these mundane dilemmas of body and mind. We glance at the doctor and cannot help but notice that brilliant sprinkle in his eye, the glow of his cheek radiating out into the night. We can all but hear the excited flutter of his dear heart, this beating of newly unfolded butterfly wings, finding joy on the wind. The doctor is clearly in love. But with what? Is the object of his love relevant to us? Or is it his transformation that grips us so? We look into the doctor's tear-filled eyes, feeling the panorama of all our own lost love pangs again.

chapter 146 - nocturnal set list
Circling this glowing core we sit cross-legged and sing our songs. It is at times like these that we come back to them and that they receive us with open arms. We walk their familiar lanes; sometimes alone, sometimes hand in hand, dawdling, idling, at a canter, sometimes at a sprint. We trace a finger along their lines, negotiate their curves in our hands, comb out their hair and breathe in their inimitable scent. We come back to our songs and find solace there, strumming distractedly "Wishing Well" and "Making Do", humming along to "The Law of the Land" and "Ready, Steady, Gone". As we move on to "The Restless Within" we are on our feet again, even the antisocial and unforthcoming Hans Rudolf, and we are singing "Now or Never" defiantly, on our toes and at the tops of our voices, looking up into that unresponsive sea of night, and how much better we feel for it. You see, the songs have always been with us, have always been wandering in our paddocks and minds, since we were twiddling our thumbs in our mothers' bellies, through rain and shine, in sickness and in health, from the tops of our joys to the bottom of our sorrows, untangling our knots and ironing out our creases with these songs, our songs, our children, these boats we have built with what we have found, held together with string and glue and goodwill, these boats that set sail across the bay, braving wind and wave, fending for themselves at last. We've built em as strong as we can, let them go now. Give them one last push, set them on their way. Let them go.

chapter 147 - eddy of upward sparks
Around the fire we admire the ever-growing peace. We play our songs and soon feel calmer and more appeased. We strike matches for the simple joy of seeing them burn. We strike up conversation on a variety of curious and often engaging themes. We talk about being hot and cold, about being fat and thin, of marriage and divorce. We talk about thumb-sucking and bed-wetting, even premature gesticulation. We talk about war and peace, about hope and glory, crime and punishment, to have and to have not. We talk about women with men and men with women. We talk about the good, the bad and the ugly, about wit and wisdom, the sound and the fury, about correct cat maintenance and the dangers of carving your name in bonsai trees. Everyone is participating, is chipping in with an anecdote or observation, everyone except the doctor, that is. He is sitting there in his nakedness, his eyes are closed and his face fixed with a grin. The aliens appear to have stripped him clean, not even leaving his watch or ring. One gold filling is just visible through the part of his lips. We address him occasionally in case he feels excluded, to leave a welcoming trail or way for him to find his way back to where he really does belong. If we were of another type we would be fearing for his sanity, however, we are not and do not do such a thing. Some of us are adopting a more horizontal way of being, heads are leaning on shoulders or propped up on hands, or slip discreetly into laps. Occasionally a log is tossed onto the fire, releasing a shower of upward sparks that eddy and dance and leave us feeling decidedly indolent and supine.

chapter 148 - in a song
There is a time and there is a place. Always. And if you can mention a city and a street and the weather in a song, and the name of a loved one, all the better. Use pronouns for the loved one if you like. They'll do. Maintain a veneer of secrecy and at the same time, intimacy. Make it for everybody and nobody. Create the illusion that it is written by the listeners themselves, so that they slip into it without wondering where it came from or to whom it belongs. Let them mistake it for their very own, take it with them to indulge in, in the privacy of their own homes. Incite action if you can, and also inaction. Encourage abnormal behaviour and impure thoughts. Incite empathy and caresses. If tears are shed, what the heck, all the better, let them fall like rain released, cleansing and soothing and washing it all away. And while we're on the subject, do not hesitate to overstep the mark, far better this than falling short of your expectations, and theirs. Revel in extremes, in stamping in puddles, cracking mirrors, hurling insults and breaking promises. Every little bit helps. In short, stir the blood, feed the soul, build it all up into something much bigger than you could ever imagine.

chapter 149 - the fickle field
Julio Hidalgo comes wandering across the field. At first we hear him and then we see him. At first he is in our aural field and later in our vision. We know it is him. We recognise his nasal tenor timbre and that dizzy warbling vibrato -wild as an ambulance siren. He is walking in his too large patent leather shoes, his second-hand trousers pulled too high above his waist. The guitar itself is riding just below his chin. He is strumming flamboyantly and walking. His head is held high (and really the holding of the head makes the most of a little man like this, almost insect-like, he is) and he is singing. The song, "Perdóname mujer", is reaching its climax. For those of you not familiar with Hidalgo, we can tell you this. He is a modest and minor cabaret star, a busker and a crooner. We first laid eyes on him as some long gone moon was rising over a frisky evening sea and we were eating paella at one of those backbeach chiringuitos that we did so adore in those days when we were in love and had sand between our toes and our fingers entwined, restless as anemones in the sea, and there he was in his gold-buttoned sailor jacket and his best false teeth in, serenading us further into oblivion. And here he is again now, coming across the field at us, forever armed with a song. Did he fall from the deck of a passing cruise ship, slip down the rope of some wayward land bound ferry? He barely stumbles as he strides across the ruts and stubble. A true professional, a sticker and a striver in this fickle field of ours.

chapter 150 - sum of his parts
At first we lower our voices and raise our eyebrows. This is how we initially react. It is not out of disrespect. Please, believe this to be true. We are genuinely surprised to see him here, him of all people, today of all days, and this of all places. Is there no rhyme or reason to the way things unfold? We think not. We down our voices and raisin our eyebrows. In a way, this is just what Julio Hidalgo expects. This is what he is accustomed to. This is what he must live with. (And really, what is applause but a whole lot of noise.) We do not leap to our feet and startle the air with our clapping. This spindly man deserves better, with his plywood teeth and heart of dipped gold. He is a long-distance player, a persistent limper, and underneath his showman's ease he is as stubborn as a nail and as devious as a mouse. We brush away these tired metaphors. It must be the time of life, when they like best to latch on to us, to tug at our sleeves. The fact is, despite the incongruence of his various parts and chattels, the overall effect is one of gaiety and diversion. Which only goes to prove that the whole is so much more than the sum of its frigging parts. Julio does of course possess a remarkable pair of ears. We are referring to the external ear, the dish part, the receiver, which sit there each side of his head like handles or rubber wings. He is well into his second song by now. Call it an encore if you like. He comes up close to each and every one of us, plucking a rose from thin air, then tossing it aside, now bundling his hands together and pleading on his knees. He certainly works hard at it, gives it a mighty good shot. We would take off our hats if we still had them. Everyone is appropriately amused, bar the naked doctor, now Buddha-like, head tilted, exuding a peculiar kind of peace. A low flying cloud drifts overhead. It does, dare we say it, momentarily resemble an exuberant lamb, before blurring into shapelessness. Ah, the charm of impermanence.

chapter 151 - members of our wedding
Finally there is a brief silence. A respite. A reprieve. We have said it before and no doubt will have cause to say it again. You can have quite enough of one particular thing. Regardless of this fact and seeing the instruments in our laps Julio Hidalgo springs to life yet again like he's some kind of human frigging duke box with a fresh coin dropped in. Try as we might, we strive to continually appreciate him. But there is a limit. Our attention is wandering. We are reeling in our thoughts and recapping on our history. We are taking in our surroundings, our gathering, what we give and what we take, the warmth within, obscure desires, the warmth without, the members of our wedding, the glowing coals, clouds writhing overhead, the wildness and the wilderness, the vermin and the weeds, the harmony and empathy and apathy. Finally someone speaks, gesturing at the doctor:

chapter 152 - curious shade of blue
#1: What's up with him?
#2: Bewitched by this alien thing he has going on.
#3: Starts out with us, then moves straight on to aliens. … Think about it.
#2: Selfish? Unfaithful? Inconsiderate?
#4: Dumbstruck with lust, that's all. Gone witless. Heartstrings plucked. Target hit by an arrow.
#1: Lost his bearings. Set adrift. No sign of land.
#2: No anchor. Bait taken, hook, line and sinker. Lost his marbles.
#3: Ruled by deep unmentionable things.
#4: By whimsy and fancy. Lost in space. Lost all perspective.
#1: Can't see the wood for the trees. Lost touch. Out of synch.
#2: And that other one. What's his name? The one we tied to a chair.
#3: Randolf. Hams Randolf.
#4: Yes, that one. He's not even listening. A curious case.
#2: Now look who's talking.
#1: Everybody's talking. Is there no end to it?
#2: There is, but do we wish to think about that?
#Everybody: No.
#1: So, … what's up with him? He's come over all silent. Glazed. All fugged up. Turned a curious shade of blue.

chapter 153 - doctor down
Julio Hidalgo sits down with the rest of us, with the mere mortals. It is a mystery to us how has kept it up so very long, this traipsing troubadour, this wandering minstrel, pouring forth to his erratic public's every request and whim. He may well be working the ferry route, day and nightshift, Formentera, Ibiza and back again, battling the constant hub and throb of the ferry engines, casting his songs out to the mercy of the sea, where there are no ears to hear them, where the fist-shaped head of a turtle breaks the surface and pauses an instant longer than it really needs to, and the dappled skin of the goose-bumped sea tightens momentarily, though this could be the effect of a stirring air, or a glance from the moon. How can we ever know? Now Hidalgo flops down with us and sits cross-legged like a small boy, his bony shoulders hunched and his gaunt face pulled up in a grin that seems to be saying "that's me all done now, I have no more songs to sing today. Well's gone dry." His well-scratched guitar lies on the ground beside him, its open mouth gaping at the sky. We feel a shift of currents and begin to experience a tenderness for this scrawny man, the elfish one who has nothing but diversion, generosity, and cheap n cheerful joy to share with this world. He draws his legs up to his chest and holds them in his arms, rocking a little to keep himself company. He could well be thinking of his wife right now, the lovely Dolores who is no doubt standing at her window, immersed in the silence and emptiness that her ugly sweetheart has left behind. She is much taller, much more solid than him, and her beauty has worn in a most appealing way that neighbours and passers-by cannot help but note and ponder. What must she see in him? She stands at the window and looks in the direction of the sea that has become his stage, this summer at least. Who knows after that. We'll no doubt get by. Always have till now. In turn, each of us reaches over to pat her absent partner on the shoulder. We offer him an appreciative nod. But just then, as one of us rises to his feet, the doctor is accidentally bumped and tumbles over on his side.

chapter 154 - trivial pursuits
We count to ten but he does not bob back up again, apparently no longer buoyant in this tale. If we could remember his name, we would speak it softly now. Does anybody remember his name? Please, send suggestions and afterthoughts to the aforementioned address below. The fire cracks and hisses. Of course it does. What else would it do? We count back down from ten, adding in halves and quarters to see if this will help. Why not look for solutions in numbers? As good a place as any to begin. Felicity the cat reaches out and tests his air with her velvet nose, such a sensitive organ, such an intuitive animal. We take a stick and hold it to the doctor's head, like a glass to a neighbour's wall, to register inner activity or internal dialogue. We feel for a pulse on his cool blue arm, the tick of that inner thing, for who knows what hare-brained reason. (We cannot remember if we are supposed to use our finger or thumb to do this, recalling only that one is better than the other.) So much for time wasted practising first aid. This is the blind leading the blind. We prop the doctor up once more only to see him roll over backwards with his knees in the air. "Oh, just let him be", someone sighs, "if this is the posture that he prefers." The night wears on. We are abandoned here in this nocturnal backwater, this vacuum, this void of reason. If anything else is to happen now, we will have to make it do so ourselves. You can't pin all your hopes on the infernal scriptwriter. You cannot sit right there till the coals grow cold. Someone picks up the cat and flings it into the air, to fathom once again its skill in landing on all fours.

chapter 155 - nocturnal admissions
The therapeutic effect of mild amusement wears thin. The night is pressing down on us. We could reach up with a stick and touch it. It is upon us, we who have profited from it so shamelessly, have sailed off into it so fancy free, we who have sung its praises and cried out at its peril, and serenaded under its heavy boughs, and whispered ad infinitum our nocturnal admissions. The night of nights, or the night that never was, nights awash with moonlight and hope, nights in parked cars at the lookout -eyes closed- feeling our way, shared nights of short sharp breaths and adventure, gasps out at the aerodrome long after curfew, the night that fever ran high, or when the roof fell in, the night that her waters broke, or when the ship came in, the night we missed the boat and sat on the dock watching the lighthouse whipping the sea with its beam, the night of no return, long nights sat waiting for someone to come, or for someone to go, or spent sitting on a park bench waiting for sobriety or solutions to turn up, summer nights bathed in sweat and cricket song, the leather buttons of the mattress sticking to our skin, or nights spent around the kitchen table, glasses raised as high as our spirits, many a night spent working, spent chinking down the mine, or overseeing some frigging machine, those nights spent pushing keys and pulling strings, or spent thinking you were really onto something, the night that it was all over, or when it all began. And now this one pressing down on us. We lean close to the fire and keep it alight with straws and almond shells and wishes. Just the glints of our eyes are visible now, and the occasional flash of a filling.

chapter 156 - let us praise
Let us now praise famous and infamous women and men, of all colour and creed, believers and nonbelievers alike, behaviourists and misbehavers, the wild and the bewildered, the subtle and the studious, the brash and idle, the drifters and the tidal, the tiddlers and the bigger fish, scavengers and survivors, the elected and the ignored, the idols and the idiots, the multitude and the chosen few. Need we go on? No exemptions, no exceptions made. Let us just praise them all, at this time of night. And the little creatures too, the ants and the spiders and the tadpoles, and lame mules with vile breath and dysentery, and scarred balding visually impaired hares and depressed dogs, ticks, nits, gnats, fleas and bedbugs. Let's praise em all. It's bedtime and we are saying grace, or whatever it is we say before we go to sleep. Sandflies and mosquitoes close in, first the advance party and then the rest. Despite our slapping hands, the night is still and our lids are drooping. We hear the fields stirring all about us, yes whispering and scheming, the dear plants stretching and reaching out, their roots yearning for something more, for some deep unfathomable thing. We slipper in and out of dreams, like we are strolling through different rooms. Here we are on stage with Nina Simone, and later we are enjoying hors d'oeuvre with the mayor of some significant yet forgettable town, wearing nothing but our boots and underwear. It's all so very easy in dreams. We circle the remains of the fire, head to toe, curled up and nestling into each other, the circle only broken by the seated figure of Hidalgo grinning and staring blindly into a void, and beside him the gap made by the absence of the tumbled doctor.

chapter 157 - chronicle
In the early hours of Monday morning members of an as yet unidentified group or sect were apprehended and arrested while sleeping on open ground approximately one and a half kilometres from the urban nucleus of Sant Francesc. The persons in question are currently in custody and will appear before the judge on a number of different charges ranging from vagrancy, resisting arrest, possession of an unlicensed cat, camping without a permit, public nudity and petty theft. The six-member group were intercepted as they participated in what appears to be a ritual of fire, ash, and moonlight, which police investigators believe could be the fruit of a sectarian ritual or possibly even the result of the macabre dictates of a role game that got out of hand and ended in tragedy. A police statement explains how the now arrested members of this group, apparently under the effect of unknown substances or in a transcendental state, were unaware that one of their members had actually died during the night of their illegal gathering. Other theories still being considered cite the possibility of the death in question being the direct result of the illegal activities of Sunday night, possibly around midnight and under the effects of a three-quarter moon. A further theory from an unidentified source raises the suspicion of necrophilia. The bizarre meeting of the six suspects was reported to police by off-duty Swiss parking inspector, Hans Rudolph who, with suspicions aroused, had followed the group at a distance for more than 12 hours. Randolf is reported to have run barefoot more than two kilometres to report the incident, after being held hostage and being tortured with sarcasm, alienation and disrespect. Rundolph is currently in the care of social workers. The corpse, a middle-aged male, is awaiting identification.

chapter 158 - heavy metal clang
It never fails. Never. Always something waiting round the bend, or at the next corner, leaning against a wall and whistling through its teeth, a tossed cigarette still glowing in the gutter. Who is that tall dark stranger; a messenger, an angel of life or death, a dealer of fate or some other such folly? Alas, we are never prepared for it, whatever it is, no matter how hard we try. Our mind is simply elsewhere. Where else would it be? We are not adept at foreplay or plotting or scheming. You must have noticed by now. We row with the flow, follow our hunches, are creatures of bad habit. That is to say, we in general improvise in this musical adventure of ours, this lively quest. Put it down as a weakness if you like. Add it to the list, plenty more where that came from. We are escorted to the lock up. Our guards are a charming couple of recent recruits, a boy and a girl, -fetching traces of acne blooming on his young face, she's a large and sweet looking girl, a good couple of hands taller than him, with her hair carefully drawn back in a ponytail. We hear the constant but pleasing heavy metal clang of security doors opening and closing. We are lead through and are processed. Our ornaments and accessories are placed on plastic trays: rings, chains and bracelets, pocket watches, jaw harps, nose flutes and harmonicas, hats and scarves, belts and boots, a screwdriver, a penknife, a tuning fork and a set of Allen keys. Barefoot, feeling under-equipped and overexposed in a flood of fluorescent light we are lined up and wait our turn. We tremble, feeling that this is what is expected of us. The interrogation room is a no-nonsense, functional space. Compliments to the chef. No dreams or illusion would last long in here. The interrogation goes smoothly enough regardless, and despite being such a disjoint array of irrelevant and highly repetitive suggestions. It must be a kind of test. We wonder if we are doing well.

chapter 159 - X
Inspector X (no introductions or pleasantries are exchanged) is in the process of tying a long human hair around the neck of a fly. He has the fly by one wing and ties the knot with admirable efficiency. We wonder where he acquired such a skill, and where he procured such a long and honey-coloured hair. He releases the fly but keeps the end of the hair pressed to the table with his index finger. The fly is skittering back and forth across the table at the end of its leash. Finally Inspector X releases the hair and the fly falls to the floor. "It has been brought to my attention that, when arrested, you were not in possession of a wallet, credit card, membership cards, a cell phone, loose change, supermarket vouchers, bank statements, electricity bills, a will, any form of ID, or even a watch. What do you have to say in your defence?"

chapter 160 - in our defence
Response: Defence? Have we been attacked?

X: Change of topic. A brightly lit cigar-shaped object was seen in the sky in the vicinity of your campsite. Can you give me a possible explanation for such a thing?

Response: As a rule I cling to scientific ignorance and would be grateful if you did nothing to loosen my grip on this.

X: Would you describe yourself as a hostile sceptic, or an aggressive fanatic?

Response: Is there a third option?

X: Now. These aliens you saw: did they bark like dogs, or communicate using sign language?

Response: We saw no aliens. You would have to ask the doctor about that. However, apparently it's a little too late.

X: Yes, the doctor. Next topic.

Response: Am I doing well? You are looking pleased. Well, apparently they stripped him naked and sponged him down with a kind of jelly, … lime, if I imagine correctly. More than this I am not at liberty to divulge. It's rather personal.

X: Precisely. This is when it starts to get interesting. Tell me something about yourself that I don't already know.

Response: My! We are getting demanding. Shall I flatter you with a long pause here?

X: So you stripped the doctor naked and … did you tie him to a chair perhaps, as you did that other one?

Response: Which other one?

(X flicks over pages in his notebook.) Yes. Rudolf. Hans Rudolf.

Response: Are you spelling that with "ph" or an "f".

X: Irrelevant. Next question. This is far more serious than you can imagine. Your little game has got out of hand. There are potentially serious consequences now. Are you aware that there has been a sudden spate of fake crop circles at strategic points all over the island?

Response: Nothing would surprise me.

X: Is that an admission of guilt?

Response: Sorry. No.

X: Not to worry. It won't be long now.

Response: In any case, the ship was not round. It was shaped like a …. dildo.

chapter 161 - a thing of great importance
The inspector raises an eyebrow in a significant manner. We can only interpret this as a direct hit. We adjust our foot position and align ourselves for the knockout punch. The inspector turns over more pages of his sad little spiral notebook -we can't help but notice that the word TRIUMFADOR is printed across its cover- and pretends to jot down a thing of great importance.

(WARNING: Parts of this chapter could offend the sensitive and inexperienced. Those who become uncomfortable, fidgety or downright anxious when confronted by facts about plumbing, hard drives or sex, should under no circumstances continue reading, or, on the other hand, if they do continue reading, should make the most of their efforts.)

X: Tell me more about this relationship you have with the penis.

Response: Your wording here has wandered into quirky. Can we try that question again?

X: Do you suffer from headaches, dizzy spells, nausea, and such? Are you ever overcome by pent up energies and resources? Have you ever felt the need to vent your spleen?

Response: Three questions at once! Not fair. Anyway, We've never felt better, if it's any business of yours.

X: And do you believe in a higher force, one that watches over us when we are awake and when we are asleep?

Response: Ah, … the National Police? Is this another trick question? We don't rely on higher forces as such. We get by very nicely thank you imbibing an unmentionable concoction of whale urine and koala sperm, and believe me baby, this ain't easy to concoct.

X: We don't seem to be getting very far. Tell me about this insignificant little band you have, about these tawdry followers of yours. Tell me about this so-called music that you make. Does it have any written laws? I suppose not. We have reason to believe that you perform for next to nothing and often give your music away instead of selling it. Of what precisely do your pathetic rituals consist?

Response: Objection! You can't answer your own questions. And now you are on very sensitive ground, so you'd better watch your step. We are dangerous when motivated.

chapter 162 - the psychological edge
We are breathing deeply now. We have heard that this can help. Inspector X has inadvertently hit a frigging nerve and we are flinching, as much as we disapprove of such behaviour. We take a deep breath and make a church of our hands. We recline in our chair in an attempt at conjuring calm. Encouragingly, the inspector is exuding sweat from his temples. His sausage-like fingers are writhing blindly. The tension is such that the slightest vibration or unkind thought could shatter the room into a trillion razor sharp pieces. We sigh (to give us a psychological edge) and explain that we will be as thorough here and as systematic as this particular question demands. But it is so much more than a question. This is the reservoir that supplies our heart and fills our lungs, this is what wakes us each day and lullabies us to sleep each night. This is what encourages us to occasionally bloom. How can we ever begin to justify, exemplify and explain? What's more, why bother? Inspector X is already fiddling with his fly again, alleviating some persistent need. To dissimulate, he makes an effort to stop fidgeting (futile) and also makes a church of his hands (clumsy and of little merit) and is also now leaning back in his chair. This gives him no psychological edge, merely increases his desperate air. We show no mercy.

chapter 163 - the absent doctor's façade
The inspector is clearly lost for words (an expression that we enjoy and use with relish). His face is frozen, as if fingers have been snapped or his plug pulled mid-speech. He is staring at the church his hands have made, the sight of which relieves him none. We are familiar with this vacant kind of look, have seen it drawn across the absent doctor's façade. We wonder if this inspector has been mysteriously infected with a similar bug. Is he too about to become a hopeless romantic, a hollow hulk ravaged on he jaws of love's reef? We hold our breath and hope, being as we are in destiny's clutches. Only time will tell what is next for us to do.

chapter 164 - equidistant between heart and head
Just as quickly as he falls into it, he snaps back out. Duty calls. There are schemes to be realised, jobs to be done, allegations and charges and money to be made. Who wouldn't want to be part of it all? Too good to miss. What else is there? Inspector X slides his chair off at an angle, looks up wistfully at the horizontal strip of frosted security glass. He has a large gullet and undercarriage and his fly zipper is slipping open again. Such are the perils of dressing as a younger, fitter man. We make a mental note of this for future reference. X suddenly slams his fist down on the table in front of us, causing the table to actually jump in the air with fright. Our eyes are wide and expression startled. He swings round at us broadside with his bulging head close and his cannon door open. And do you believe that we are being unfair, incompetent, unjust, he shouts. Are we corrupt, uncultured or uncouth? As he says this, a brown paper envelope full of bank notes squeezes out of his back pocket and drops to the floor. He ignores this. His breath is of the most unwholesome kind. We concentrate on the unexpected whimsy of his exuberant eyebrows, branching out either side of his forehead like the wings of eagles. A foot shoots out from under him and kicks the brown envelope under the table. It is a reflex action. We doubt he has even registered it. He is busy rolling phlegm (we do not like this word any more than you do) in his mouth while mounting his next assault. Do you, he bellows, realise that we are sharing this planet with beings that are neither human nor normal, beings that are calling all the shots and have us dangling and jiggling at the end of their strings, all the while thinking that we are independent and original, fancy free and ever-so-smart? (He slams his purple fist down to squash the words "fancy free and ever-so-smart".) This is all very dramatic and well played, however the theatre has never really been our thing. You see, we just cannot suspend our disbelief and savour the performance, cannot help but see the actor inside that costume he has donned. Without thinking, we yawn, politely covering mouth with hand. Of course, we answer flippantly. We are in constant contact with deities, muses and such, even elves and gremlins if need be. You see, it's all about teamwork. We are entirely democratic in that respect. All hands on deck, two heads better than one, etc. And this ridiculous predilection, he snarls, throwing his torso across the table at us, for this constant and pretentious use of the pronoun "we". What have YOU got to hide? (Surprisingly, this comes across as an invitation to share hidden things.) As he spits it out he jabs one of those unsavoury fingers into our chest, just above the nipple, equidistant between heart and head.

chapter 165 - cell music
We allow ourselves to be dragged from the interrogation room like corpses, not kicking, screaming nor foaming at the mouth. We do this in style and without fuss, and really, isn't that the way we should go about all things? We spend a quiet night alone in the cell, scratching our observations on the day's events into the wall with our thumbnail and conviction. Maybe X is right. Maybe we could drop the "we" thing occasionally, when we are not all together, not convened or concentrated in the one spot. I slip off my prison slippers and survey the cell; toilet bowl, washbasin, bed, slits that cold conditioned air slips through. I lie down on the bed (too short for an average human) and stretch my imagination. I wonder what the others are doing right now and if they are faring well. If I whistled into the air-conditioning duct or down the toilet bowl, would they hear me? Could we share humble prison harmony, or make other cell music, clicking fingers and tongues, or thumping our fists on the wall? Could we do it just as well in our heads, hearing it all happening like Mozart or Liszt; the keys and the strings and the woodwind and brass, the four-part harmonies and whispered asides, the confidences and confessions and the quibbles and quips? I hear half-complete copies of it all, mere shadows, enough to wet my lips but too little to quench a thirst. No, this will not do, this being apart. I close my eyes and attempt to shut out the fluorescent light. And then I hear it more distinctly, this music of ours banishing the walls and flooding into the cell. And against this background I imagine that I am a boat, drifting oarless down a starlit stream.

chapter 166 - the sudden moon
I reach out and brush my fingertips across the surface of the water, creating an intriguing spread of ripples and distortion. Below the surface shifting layers waft in the sepia light, photos and scraps of time, places and faces, moments captured and lost, uncovering and being covered over again, timeless, improbable, absurd, the mundane and the meaningful, wedding photos and ferry tickets, gas bills and get-well cards, love letters and hate mail, summons and fines, sums and miscalculations, unrealised schemes, lessons to be learnt, thickened plots and long stories cut short, random threads of thought, undulating in the flow of the stream. And in the middle of all of this, the sudden moon of the doctor's beaming face, wobbling this way and that. Just a reflection, of course. The man himself (can this really be?) is sitting on the bed beside me, staring over my shoulder at the floor.

chapter 167 - on my clock
Me: Do you mind if I lie down and stretch out? I need to unwind. I think I'm seeing things.
Him: Be my guest. Make yourself at home.
Me: And I'm hearing things too.
Him: Yes, these are symptoms of your condition.
Me: Is it fatal?
Him: Eventually.
Me: Are you speaking from experience?
Him: Possibly.
Me: So, doctor, where were you? And why did you return?
Him: I've been out.
Me: And are you back now?
Him: Ah, some things are best left unsaid.
Me: I see.
Him: Let's just say that from this point of view I am beginning to appreciate that it is better to be content with what you are doing than be discontent with things you have left undone.
Me: Yes, agreed. I often leave things undone and find this a more comfortable arrangement.
Him: I can see that you have the time and peace here to contemplate this matter. Nothing but the flicker of the nightlight and the hubbub of fellow inmates to accompany you.
Me: Yes, inmates. I like that word. To a certain extent we are all in this together. I was just thinking about that, and thinking about where to go from here. Have you come to indicate the way?
Him: Ah, but each must find his own way, … grasshopper. There are no shortcuts.
Me: No, I have always preferred the long way round, as can be seen by the mileage on my clock. And now I can't help but notice a certain change in your countenance, a revised stance, a new element that gives you clarity, strength and security. What has brought about this change?
Him: I am free now. There are no rules, just the fact that I exist only in your imagination.
Me: Thank you doctor. I will keep that in mind, and now have you explain how the hell to get out of this frigging cell.

chapter 168 - headlines
MYSTERY SECT BREAK FREE
Four members of an unidentified sect mysteriously disappeared from their cells last night before they could appear to face charges of loitering, littering, being under the effect of nonspecific euphoria for no particular reason, and for lighting a fire without taking the necessary precautions and without matches. Police sources confirm that the two officers on duty only left their posts for the amount of time specified by union rules and were less than fifty metres away in Bar Arnaldo where they remained, standing at the bar and looking out into the street and not seeing any suspicious behaviour. Each of the accused managed to escape from their cell without incurring any damage what-so-ever to the new installations. All doors were firmly closed and other persons in custody heard nothing but the usual groaning, complaining, farting and snoring. Detectives this morning have sealed off the cell area to carry out their investigation. An anonymous spokesperson from the mayor's office has already mooted illegal conjuring, voodoo, shrinking and evaporation, as possible means of escape. Meanwhile, the opposition party has questioned the charges against the four accused, and is now suggesting that the entire affair has been given news coverage to distract attention from the fact that no locks were ever fitted to the new Police headquarters and watch house complex even though they were included in the original building budget presented by highly-successful constructor and brother-in-law of the mayor, Alfons Faro. The same sources are now also questioning the fact that Faro was paid the total project budget five times over, presumably by mistake, yet the building has never actually been completed. Further developments in the case have revealed that the testimony of a key witness, Hens Rudolf, has been thrown into doubt as it has been brought to light that he is not in fact a Swiss parking warden, but actually an unemployed Tasmanian hitchhiker with a long list of shoplifting convictions and a serious inferiority complex. The body of a fifth member of the group has also disappeared from the hospital morgue. Members of the public are asked to phone the number below on the sighting any or all of the five escapees, and to visit our controversial 'Hot news' website to vote on whether or not these five escapees belong to a sect, a society or the opposition party. Many prizes to be won.

chapter 169 - many prizes to be won
It's out and about that we prefer, that warms our world-weary hearts and sets aglow our embers. We are not clerks or office workers (though some of our best friends are), are not animals that do best in captivity. We tend to droop and wilt in such environments, to tug at our chains and sulk, our coats lose their shine and our eyes their glitter. We prefer fresh air and street fumes, the calm of a country road and flurry or flyovers. We like to hear the clatter of heels on pavement, the rumble of underground things, lovers tongue-kissing on a zebra-crossing, the locking of brakes and screech of tyres. Put us in a hothouse and we do not thrive or bear fruit, simply sweat and rot. We prefer wide open spaces and unexpected nooks and crannies, prefer to hang out with cooks, crooks and grannies than slavishly mimic ladder-climbing cronies. We favour ether over air-conditioning, prefer indigestion to constipation. No, ... restraint is not for us. We thrive on the danger of drifting, gazing up at the night sky rather than screwing our eyes up in telescopes. We dwell on wells and worship ant and molehills. Out here, on the outside, where the swallows shit and sparrows twitter, where neighbours on a street corner chatter like monkeys in a tree and nobody ever listens, where there is that allure of the unlikely, and there are so many prizes to be won.

chapter 170 - getting press
Details of this inconsequential news item quickly spread far and wide, mutating on bottom-of-barrel news sites, blogs, blurbs, blubbers and twitters. Selected headlines listed below:

LOCK-PICKING ALIENS WOO ENTIRE ISLAND WITH INCESSANT HUMMING
CROP DAMAGE BLAMED ON ILLEGAL SPACECRAFT PARKING
HIPPY BAND CONSTRUCTS ALIEN LAUNCH PAD
ET TUNES IN TO BUSKERS
DOCTOR KILLED IN POST-FESTIVAL SPACE ORGY
LOW-FLYING UFOS AFFECT LOCAL FISHING
ALIEN FLU ALERT!!
UFO VISITORS BARBECUE LOCAL PHYSICIAN
HEAD OF POLICE ACCUSED OF ACCEPTING ALIEN BRIBES
POLITICIANS HOLD KEY TO HIDDEN LOCK TRADE
BODY-SNATCHERS DISGUISED AS INCOMPETENT ROCKERS
FOLK OUTFIT TALENT SCOUTS FROM OUTER SPACE?
ARE ALIENS REALLY HIP?
ARE HIPPIES REALLY ALIENS?
DIRECT MYSPACE HIT FOR EXTRATERRESTRIAL COMBO
UNIDENTIFIED FLYING SECT SOWS MORAL CHAOS
DOCTOR SLAIN ON WEDDING NIGHT BY ALIEN BRIDE
FAKE CROP CIRCLE GROUP DISBANDS FACED WITH THE REAL THING
RISE IN CORRUPTION LINKED TO UNKNOWN LIFE FORMS
DOLE AND DOOM BLAMED ON ALIENS
BUMPER SALES OF ALIEN FLU MASKS AND ANTI-HUM EARPLUGS
IT'S OFFICIAL: NEW FLU SPREAD BY EXTRATERRESTRIAL SEX. CHURCH SPOKESPERSON SAYS "I TOLD YOU SO"
THEY HAD LONG BEARDS, CARRIED GUITARS, SANG WOODY GUTHRIE SONGS AND WERE GREEN!
ORGANISERS BOAST FESTIVAL SUCCESS: They even came from other planets!
ISLAND UNDER THREAT OF UFO-SPOTTER INVASION
I DIDN'T DO IT, SAYS MAYOR
NEITHER DID I, SAYS OPPOSITION LEADER
ALIEN CONDOM SALES SKYROCKET

chapter 171 - gentle torrent
Inspector X adjusts gullet and lowers bulk into chair. He crosses arms on chest and surveys town square: children, dogs, cat, seagull, old folk held up by sticks, pigeon with clubfoot. A colleague takes off coat, folds it inside out, drapes it across back of second chair and sits in third, opposite X. Holster and service revolver are clearly visible. Waiter places two glasses on table and fills them. He stands bottle of cognac in centre of table, steps back and takes leave. X removes packet from pocket, pops two Viagras into mouth and lights cigarette. The two colleagues raise and drain glasses. The square is awash with evening light, with this gentle torrent of spring.

chapter 172 - every cubic itch
X's companion, Herman, has elbows on table, is twisting glass this way and that. Beneath beard, face is pocked and scarred. Eyes are barely visible behind nicotine glass of aviator Ray-Bans.

X: We had them in our clutches, Herman. And now they're skittering free, like rats n cockroaches in garbage. Let's face it, that charge of "wandering in no particular direction" has seen better times. Is too damn run-of-the-mill nowadays, commonplace in today's competitive market. Who can blame them for meddling in alien affairs, for getting tangled up in blue. Tis all but smoke and deception, politics and conniving. I can tell you, if it weren't for these staples of food and drink, the odd pleasurable bodily function, the relief of sleep, some occasional silken thighs, if it weren't for these reasons to be cheerful … where would we be my friend, what would nourish us, without these few meagre crumbs to feed our every cubic itch?

chapter 173 - spiral scratch
We are pleased to be walking again along our particular path, heads held high, though cross-dressed to avoid detection, walking but at the same time, on the run. Yes, we hear you ask, what about those children of yours, the dear ones, the beloved, the instruments of your devotion, the ones that you hold and stroke and pluck? Were they also arrested and then liberated at the same time as you? We turn to the side to show you them clinging to our backs, or nestled under our armpits. Do you think we would leave them behind? Do not be deceived by appearances. This is no festive pantomime thing. Do not let this cross-dressing lead you astray. We are serious about our work and mission in life and we insist, will persist with it until we no longer can. We are in fact pregnant with pending elaboration, have buns in our respective ovens, that is to say, are overwhelmed by the need to create. All this social improvisation has deprived us of our personal time and space, has shrivelled up our swelling. Spending too much time with too many people dilutes the soul, whittles one down to nothing. If we go for too long without the discipline of work some of us begin to feel woozy, others wheezy. One cannot be social all of the time. Let us get down to work. We decide here and now to put pen to paper, to formalise our arrangements and to lay down new tracks. Yes, a new album. How we do revere these moments of realisation. For some this is a time of jangled nerves and nagging doubt. Not for us. We kick off our boots and jump right in. The absence of diodes and resistors does not threaten our resolve. Lack of levers, knobs and dials does not discourage us one bit. We have no time for the analogue vs. digital debate. We simply pick up a stick and draw a spiral scratch into a patch of wet paving cement. There! Tis done! There is no denying it (once it has set). Tis not the same as a diamond tipped needle cutting into the acetate master, nor is it digital gibberish somehow etched into the silver lining of a C-frigging-D. No, this is something else entirely and it is of our own making and we are proud of it, sir. Slight us if you like. Tis but water off a dack's buck. There, we have said it and now you know.

(Editor's note: How the f*ck do we promote and market such a thing? Do you perhaps have divine rights?)

chapter 174 - our latest masterpiece
We stand back and admire our handiwork. Such a fine cut. Such an intriguing line and intricate stitching. Such subtle tones and lights. We look at it from every angle. In a minute we shall be moving on, so please allow us this small indulgence. Does not the painter stalk the completed canvas, the carpenter walk wistful through the finished house, does not the cow briefly sniff and lick her newborn calf on the ground, patiently waiting for it to raise its head to her, to prop itself up on those ungainly legs, lacking in strength and experience, but relying instead on just its flowering will? We have shaped and formed this -our latest masterpiece- from our every thought and deed. Let us pause for a moment and appreciate that. Then we will be off again, heading towards the village square to indulge in the habitual swilling and spillage. Night is falling ever so gently across terra cotta tiles. Spring is weaving through the air. A cat sits on a wall licking off its weekend indulgence. A rat slips by, not even bothering to give us a cursory look. Naturally we are absorbed and do not realise, .... that we are being followed.

chapter 175 - our unconventional tuning
We turn away and walk on. One has to do that, always. A breeze has lifted. Polystyrene cups and plastic bags fidget at curbs and in corners. Fallen leaves half-heartedly eddy. A lost scrap of newsprint blows down a side street and attaches itself to our leg. At first we try to shake it loose, then, out of curiosity, flatten it out to read:

(page torn)… subsequently come to light that key witness and informant in the post-festive flu funding fraud case is in fact an antipodean agitator attempting to infiltrate the island's infrastructure in hope of destabilising local hierarchies and morale. Suspicions were raised when Ralf Hudson, alias Hans Randolf, alias The Tasmanian Tiger, was observed filling numerous eight-litre plastic mineral water bottles with gasoline at a local service station. When questioned as to the whereabouts of his vehicle he ingenuously replied that he'd never owned one in his life. Subsequently his pockets were found to be full of dead matches and string. Interpol agents were immediately informed of Hudson's identity and whereabouts, however, are yet to respond or react. Hudson was present at the arrest of numerous members of an innocuous musical pop group going by the name of Frigging About, or simply The Frigs to ardent fans. The Frigs were controversially arrested at the weekend on charges of incessant foot-tapping, persistent unbending of paperclips and unconventional tuning. Members of the group mysteriously walked free from Police custody late on Monday night. A fifth person also arrested at the time was later discovered to be deceased and in the early stages of decomposition. Hudson is believed to be armed with a number of blunt pencils and to be potentially dangerous when agitated. Local detectives are continuing their ... (page torn)

(page torn)… DON'T MISS OUT! FREE KNIFE WITH WEDNESDAY'S EDITION... (page torn)

chapter 176 - recipe for disaster
We are light-hearted and relieved by our recent creative spurt. We walk on, weaving our way towards the town square. The scene that greets us there is the opposite of uplifting. We are sure that there is a word for this but, with all this coming and going, have mislaid the Thesaurus and cannot come up with such a word without it. In a corner of the square leftovers huddle; festival-goers, jugglers, spoon-benders and buskers who (like us) have evidently missed the boat. This is no crime. We strive to make the most of it. Overhead the sky is bruising, plum-coloured and beginning to churn. The wind has picked up and is annoying shutters and pushing empty things around. Spits of rain slant down. As we enter the square we see X and his sidekick seated at a table. Straight ahead of us, upstairs in the council chambers, lights are burning and shadows can be seen crawling across the ceiling. We walk towards the leftovers, lounging on their sacks and bags. Someone is warming a can of beans on a candle. "Last of the food" they call charmingly, beckoning us to join them. Behind us the shadow of Hans Rudolf (we have already forgotten his other name) ducks behind a litterbin. The litterbin is full and tipping over precariously. Bats skitter hither n thither with surprising speed and accuracy. A drunk leans back (dick out) attempting to piss on a tree. A streetlamp bulb buzzes then blows out, spreading darkness all about. The pump don't work coz the vandals took the handle.

chapter 177 - vagabond burlesque
We open our arms in greeting, inadvertently embracing the evening. Our hosts reshuffle and make room for us to sit, on their plastic bags, coat sleeves and cardigans. Warmed beans are passed around on a toothpick. It's quality, not quantity that counts and these folk with so little are the most charitable and gracious whereas those with much more are often so graceless, unkind and tight-fisted. Someone is strumming a banjo, made from a tuna can and fishing line. A member of this gathering gets up and dances, does a slow waltz with a passing vagabond. Tis touchingly cheek-to-cheek and moving to witness. The warm effect which she in him finds missing She seeks to kindle with continual kissing ("Venus and Adonis" - Shakespeare) She soon spins her temporary Adonis off on an acute tangent where he shuffles round and round, down the gentle gradient and out of sight. In the meantime, she has turned the dance into vagabond burlesque, is wagging her hips in a delightful kind of way, raising her singlet to display her navel ring while drawing a tattered sweater across her back enticingly. The drunk (dick in) leans back and observes from close range. The plink and plonk of the banjo has bewildered the rain for the time being. Above us, lights flash here and there in the council chambers. Dark shapes dart before windows and the occasional chatter of breaking glass can be heard.

chapter 178 - gyrate with grace
Inspector X observes the dance with considerable interest. He is reaching into his pocket for more Viagra. His companion twists an empty cognac glass on the table, head tilted towards the glass yet shooting out a glance across the square to where Hans Rudolf is stretched out on the ground at the base of a tree, impersonating its shadow. We sit with our newly made friends and watch the dancer gyrate with grace, expressing a surprising array of moods and yearning. What an expressive vessel the body can be and how we love to watch it move like this. Above the dancer the doctor hovers, beaming his effusive smile. Aren't you surprised to see me here, it appears to say. Frankly, we are, not to mention these figures of eight that he has begun to describe in the air. Ghostly coins and keys fall from his pockets and come to nothing. Behind him we see figures in long black coats coming out of the council chambers and loading cardboard boxes and bulging sacks into a van. The drunk (dick out) is attempting to piss in the air, aiming at the doctor (if you can call that "aiming"). Our newly made friends are rolling cigarettes with further illusion and wonder. We must count our blessings.

chapter 179 - the distance between girls and boys
The night wears on, increasingly dramatic and overblown, as we sit uncomfortably on the ground, passing round small puffs of shared and short-lived bliss. We are, you must remember, cross-dressed to avoid detection though wondering now why we bothered with such complication. The girls' tops are doing the boys no favours at all and their makeup is blurred every which way lending them a decidedly deranged air. The girls, on the other hand, are perfectly at ease in the boys' clothes and sporting them with the usual flair. Each member of the band, however, retains his or her own footwear, as it is difficult nay impossible to put oneself in the shoes of another, try as one might. We hold hands, to complete the picture of composure and deception. The waiter comes out of the bar banging his metal tray and hissing at a kitten up on one of the tables, licking her parts. Could this be Felicity? Inspector X's deputy shoots up out of his chair, sending it tumbling. He pulls revolver from holster and thrusts it in the direction of Hans Rudolf (stretched out on the ground), ready to blow his fucking brains out (or so it appears). The drunk (dick in) is turning to flee (all in slow-motion).

chapter 180 - in dreams
It's all a question of attitude, it really is. Ralf Hudson is on the ground looking up with considerable distaste. Couldn't they at least have called his name: Hudson, hands behind back! Tiger, freeze, etc, etc. No, none of this. He is condemned to anonymity when all he ever wanted was notoriety. Still, we can't all get what we most want, can't all walk away appeased from the wishing well. And this is the bare truth of it, and even Herman, the inspector's accomplice, must be feeling the teeth of this right now, there with his loaded gun aimed and his leg quivering with apprehension, confusion and frustration. Such a potent mix, and readily explosive. Handle with care. Up in the council chambers a fight has broken out. Chairs are being hurled through the air and windows are smashing, all to the pulsing light of reporters' bulbs. We shake our heads and wonder if the world will ever be another way. And is it any fault of our own? Of course not. And neither is it our fault when Hudson/Rudolf jumps to his feet and lunges towards escape, that is to say, begins to sprint in the direction the drunk is going, and like the drunk, and like in dreams, he is running in the thick slow-motion syrup of wishes and catastrophes, and we can all see that he is barely moving in this fleeing of his in the wrong direction. Can you imagine his face, pathetically hopeful but at the same time already caught and quartered. Herman shoots. Clank, clank, clank goes his revolver, spent shells spinning in the air. Inspector X is looking the other way, perhaps for inspiration, perhaps on the verge of erection. Heaven knows he as imbibed enough Viagra to fuel a ship of great proportions. And this is all of infinite distraction and we are also on our feet now, ready to defend our presence there and to fend off that which is to come.

chapter 181 - odd ungainly angel
We get our balance, forming a solid foundation stance and waving our hands about in futile sweeps of pseudo tai chi. Appearances are everything. The fact is, this is all becoming rather taxing. Our heads throb as our hearts pump, nerves jangling and tinnitus hissing in our heads. Don't ask us what the cause of all of this is. We have no idea. Call it symptoms of being, the wear and tear of life. As long as it all works out even in the end. Hudson has dropped to the ground, though it could be a hoax. After all, this is his speciality. The most disturbing thing is that nobody is disturbed to see him there, collapsed in this untidy heap. The good doctor has floated over to where he lies and is hovering there, an odd ungainly angel. Call us cynical but we have the distinct feeling that not even magic realism will be able to restore the calm here. The council chambers continue to be sacked. Flames are licking at its insides, setting it aglow with flare and daring. How we do love a fire. Inspector X is looking the other way, running another long hair between his teeth to dislodge a morsel of gristle or meat. His sidekick, Herman, sits back down -pistol hot in holster- and is staring into the void of his empty glass. If this is a dream, then it is surely time to wake up.

chapter 182 - the irrefutable truth
But waking up can be so very hard to do. As if to contradict this, the people we are sitting with leap unexpectedly into action; the jugglers juggling, the fire-eaters eating fire, palm readers and mediums stalking the strayed and bewildered. Heaven knows how they are going to outdo the affairs currently occurring in the square to impress these potential clients enough to do business. And speaking of the square, there is a noticeable tinge of apocalypse in the air, sparks and rags of smoke rising, the smell of sulphur and smouldering flesh. Through the open door of the bar we see customers mauling each other, heads rolling to and fro, bodies entwined, some with trousers at the ankles, others with dresses thrown high. We take flight, of course we do. Who wouldn't? What if this is merely a localised thing? We sprint across the square with imagined banshees at our heels. And thunder, did we forget to mention thunder? There is a constant throb overhead and lightning flashing to make the world momentarily ghostlike and seen. We even hear a voice calling, amplified and reeking of authority. Some of those present are already on their knees looking heavenwards. Not us. If we have stolen apples from our neighbour's yard, well please forgive us but we were hungry. If we have spoken badly of others, well they probably deserved it. If we have raised our voice or hand to strike long and silent-suffering animals, then it is probably because they have come to expect this. If we have been slothful and lustful and greedy, then it is because it is this that we do best. How can good people shine without the bad to hang them against? We are not about to go weak-kneed and pigeon-toed because we hear voices in our heads, or seemingly coming from above. We run from the square. We run from the square looking back over our shoulders. Only then do we see the irrefutable truth.

chapter 183 - driven wild by fans
Do not judge us on our judgement. We are as prone to self-delusion as the next and proudly open to suggestion. This is but a log, written on a toilet roll, blurred and frayed and soggy now, stuck together with gum and grease and imprecision. Kerouac would be proud. You see, it is of the utmost importance to write this all down because if we don't, we fear that we will wake up and that in five seconds or so it will all be gone. We have scribbled ourselves silly and worn our pencils down to the bone in the writing of this. We continue now with a hairclip dipped in mascara, on a torn piece of matchbook. No need to point out that there is far more behind than can possibly be ahead. No need. Please excuse misshapes and blurs, and this penchant for mistreating words. We will continue as best we can. Let us see. Let us report facts, in shorthand if need be. The façade of the council chambers leans forward into the square. It is apparently made of plywood, tacks and card and falls with remarkable grace. The figures in long black coats stop their ransacking act and stand looking out from the scaffolding, hands on hips. The amplified voice we hear is that of none other than Federico Fellini, high up in the hydraulic arm of a cherry picker, leaning out precariously, loudhailer in hand, narrow black tie blowing up over his shoulder. "Smoke! Smoke and illusion!" he is calling. "Rain! Bereaving rain." It is then that we catch sight of the sea, uncannily there at the end of the street. As one would expect, it is made of papier-mâché, flour dough and sand. The waves that we see billowing are sheets of black plastic driven wild by fans. The effect of thunder and wind is produced by a helicopter hovering overhead. We immediately lose momentum, dropping quickly from gallop to canter, from trot to crawl. You see, they keep moving the goalposts here, keep flicking the page as we read our lines. Over there the crew are on a coffee break, laughing and stuffing their faces with buns. Must be hungry work. Lights are enigmatically on in the actors' caravans. Generators cough and rev. Cables crisscross the ground indiscriminately. All high-tension here. And that rain that will sweep down any minute now. We stand on a corner, wondering whether to get the autographs of others, or to wait there until they request autographs of ours.

chapter 184 - the unnecessary effort of standing
We could be waiting all night until we get satisfaction, or waiting all night until we get no satisfaction. What difference do waiting and satisfaction make? Will they bring us any closer to anything? And if waiting and not waiting make no difference at all, then what about all those other things that we do, like suffering fools, entertaining dilemma and fulfilling obligation, not to mention sweeping, window cleaning and ironing. Is it worth it? Does it make an iota of difference? And come to think of it, what about thinking? What purpose does THAT serve? Does it give us anything back in return? We are poised now at a corner seriously doubting the wisdom of moving from there to somewhere else, of putting one foot in front of the other. We likewise question the value of jotting down words in this ridiculous log, not to mention the static and confusion masquerading as thought which precede any such words. We decide to stand here and watch it all go by, … if it happens to pass this way. We moot the idea of lying down, thus saving on the unnecessary effort of standing. We have done this before. What possible harm could it do to repeat it now? But there we go again, thinking, weighing up the ins and the outs, the pros and the cons, sorting the goats from the sheep, jamming our airwaves with mental dithering. We lie on the ground and soon experience the sensation of spinning. It could be the rotation of the globe that we are feeling, or the effect of gravitational attraction created by the closeness of our heads. Evidently, this lying low is already paying us dividends. We indulge in further expansion and meditation. The next diary entry will surely be a blank page. We turn our heads to the side, looking back to where we have been. We see that there is nothing there but scaffolding and fake light, pages of the script blowing on a false wind. Up above, endless cloud cover drags by. It starts to spit, but whether or not this is real, your guess is as good as mine. We turn our heads the other way, looking out into the darkness ahead, knowing full well that the future is little more than a linguistic notion.

chapter 185 - mantra
Mumbling our particular mantra. Holding on while letting go. Humbling sounds of comfort under breath. We let ourselves go, waiting patiently to see if we will follow. We get up but remain lying down, float like flakes of ash on hot air. Are as still as the ground itself, solid and far-reaching, this mass that supports, that puts up with us, that holds foundations and envelopes roots. We think and don't think, following the slow predictable steps of the song. We dissolve. We take shape as a variety of things; a leaf, a stone, the fog that sweeps in. We heave to, leaving jibs flapping, abandoning our vessels to become mere specks of brightness vibrating in the vaulting firmament. Ah, this is the life, someone sighs. We all nod in agreement.

chapter 186 - shaken from our reverie
We are shaken from our reverie. Someone is pissing on our legs. Words of protest are exchanged. A shock for all and sundry. We jump to our feet, stomping on ground to dislodge this unwelcome warmth and damp. We do not like it one bit. And if in the past we fleetingly considered the idea interesting -say, in some corner of our imagination to be showered on by a loved one- well it is not currently on our list of things to do. Naturally. We leap to our feet and confront the one who has urinated. We are yet to ascertain whether or not this has been inadvertent or intentional. Ay, he calls. I didn't see ya there. It is dark and we cannot make out his features. Sorry, he says, and we can hear that he has turned to walk away, and really, who could blame him for that? We reach out to detain the culprit by the shoulder. We strike our one last match and hold it up to illuminate his face -assuming that it is a he and not a she, and we think we can be quite sure about that. By the light of the match we see that it is not the rogue that we expected, not that Ralf Hudson (a.k.a. Hans Rudolf), nor is it Julio Hidalgo (who must be far from here by now, steaming his way into the arms of his loved one). It is not the introverted but volatile sidekick of Inspector X's. It is, we discover, none other than the drunk we observed waving his thing about unproductively in the town square. Some credit we must afford him. He has at last achieved his aim. When he sees us all staring at him like that, he hangs his head and fumbles with his fly, sniffling and apologising at length. Don't have a drink, do you? he ventures. Or a couple a coins to git something to eat? You'd be lucky, we reply, not with malice. It's just that we are also penniless. And come to think of it, given our current prospects could actually profit from a drop or two ourselves. Ah, how smug and sure of ourselves we can be, forgetting just how easy it is to fall by the wayside. Afraid not, we say in answer, but apology accepted. He is looking a bit miserable now, so we put our arm over his shoulder and tug at him encouragingly, as we like others to do for us when we have unwittingly wandered into nether lands.

chapter 187 - drunk shuffles
Thunder blows, sheets of lightning. A prelude to the imminent deluge, the first drops of warning fall. We look up above. There is no telling where exactly those drops are coming from. We could call it "the heavens" for the sake of convenience. Chilled drops are falling from the heavens and smacking on our domes and gables, stunning us with their impact and splash, wetting our cheek, running exhilaratingly down our spine. We move on. We like to do this in a storm, to get out in it, to walk with it to its logical end. We are on the road and walking. The children? What about them? We frisk our shoulders and backs to confirm their absence. We have left them behind. Let us hope that they are in a place that is dry and warm, and that when they waken they do not cry for long. How would they be now on our backs, soaking up this rain, growing heavy, dull and silent, their timbers swelling. They will have to fend for themselves, for a time at least, can't forever reside in the nest. We know from experience that looking down or turning back are unadvisable. We continue, putting one sodden boot in front of the other, making our way towards the coast. The drunk shuffles along at our side, content to be one of many, after a long period of being one and lonely. With every lightning flash we see the bones of trees -x-ray blue- and the bleached road laid out before us. At the end of that road is the edge of the land, where the sea comes crashing in, dashing along the shore.

chapter 188 - grave expressions
Our clothes are sticking to us like a second skin, our feet splashing on the road. Rain splats down on the bitumen and thunders in the fields. The drunk puts his arm over our shoulder, to stay upright, or to lean close to be heard above the roar. A constant stream of water is running off the tip of his nose. He is explaining something of great importance, impossible to hear and follow against this din, however we give him our undivided attention in response to the gravity of his expression. He could be telling us that he has just committed a murder or that he is contemplating suicide. We make do with noncommittal nodding and vague head waving in the hope that this will communicate either sympathy or surprise, whichever he may be expecting. The pitch of the storm increases, whipping against us now and impeding our progress until we are merely walking on the spot there in the rain, not able to make our way against the wind. We cannot see where we are going either, and only know that we are still on the road because the surface underfoot is hard and even. On we plod just the same, shrugging and gesturing to postpone this discussion until more agreeable circumstances arise, that is to say, until the rain is no longer rattling on our ears and we can finally hear each other speak, though, being heard is not an essential prerequisite for speaking, as we sometimes speak simply to air an idea we have, to let it out of us so as to leave us in peace.

chapter 189 - flotsam n jetsam
Who knows how long we wandered down that road, dragging our feet and speaking gibberish. A faint and eerie glow insinuated itself on the horizon but would not or could not turn into morning. We are dragging our feet now, it must be said. Our bones ache and our acne welling. There is something mildly familiar about this fellow at our side, something that nags at the back of the mind and niggles our giblets. All around, the fields are clicking and gulping and gurgling, the downpour having congealed in potholes and ditches and puddles, … through which we wade. Intermittently, our companion's thin white claw of a hand shoots out from its sleeve to brush back his wet and scraggly hair. Don't we know you from somewhere, we think. At some time during the night he has lost a slipper, though this does not cramp his style. He must be used to losing. His pockets appear to be full of mud, and he has something like seaweed in his hair. But scratch the surface and lo and behold what shines beneath, shedding light on things in common. In this case, a love of lust, a lust for life, a fondness for irrational things such as music. A thickening fog has settled on the island and we can no longer see from whence the light is coming, … if it is coming. Not so much light, it's more of a milky glow, with which we will have to make do. Nevertheless, something else is dawning. We have finally managed to pin a name to the insect face of our companion. It's him, Little Flea, guitarist from easily forgotten and long-gone thrash group, Fits-n-Spurts. Had a rehearsal space, damp and dank, in an abandoned dungeon of a depressed industrial zone, a members only affair, and all members with terrible teeth and bad habits, forever trying to get up or falling down, rarely got round to strapping on their instruments to play. Don't ask us where or when we saw them. Perhaps we never did, could just as easily be imagining it. The Flea doesn't care. He's as skinny as a whippet, with his face drained and hollowed out by those greedy years. Look at him back then, up on stage, one lit cigarette between his fingers, another jammed tween machine heads of his guitar and a further half-smoked behind his ear. His famous guitar with an alloy neck and head; he used nothing but aluminium plectrums, because, he explained, they produced better sparks. His amp hissed and screeched like the engine on a 727 (long before noise control was even heard of). Fits-n-Spurts! We say the name and roll our eyes in disbelief. Who ever thought we'd end up thinking about them? No offence meant. And look at him now, turned to drink, Little Flea washed up on these distant shores, just as we are. It was the construction boom of 89 that eventually did them in. Cranes sprung up all around their hovel. They no longer had walls to graffiti. Car bodies were carted away and squashed, to make key-rings or drink cans. They were driven insane by the excavators and pile-drivers, who wouldn't be, surviving on chocolate Vita-wheats and methadone, deprived of the relative peace that they required to make their noise in.

chapter 190 - ripples n wakes
After endless footage of inner recollection and reckless scraps of internal commentary we smile fondly at the Flea and he looks playfully back at us, as if by some miracle he has seen every image and heard every word that we've just had running through our head. That was then, this is now, he says. He scrapes a handful of mud from his coat pocket and flings it into the fog where it is immediately and soundlessly absorbed. We do not hear it hit the ground and are unclear as to whether it is the Flea who has apparent supernatural powers, or the fog. I am as ignorant as bliss, says the Flea. His face cracks open with a disarming yet disturbing smile. (His inner regions too have seen better times.) He swivels his hips and slaps his bony arse, does a little slipperless skip and hop, bursting into a snippet of Tom song:
I'm going straight to the top
Oh yea up where the air is
Fresh and clean
I'm going straight up to the top
If you know me, you know what i mean
In this animated and expansive frame of mind he parts his coat and peels his shirt open to reveal a tattoo on his pale and fragile chest - nearly transparent it is, the skin and the bones alike, so much so that we lean closer thinking that we can see the shape of his heart in there beating. Out of courtesy we soon draw back again, in case it is seen as bad form to stare at another person's inner organs like that, above all the heart. Back out on the surface of him we finally admire the tattoo, seeing that it consists of the words My Marie circled by the higgledy-piggledy links of a hand-drawn chain, all in the colour of alloy. We spent just one night together, he informs us, me n Marie, before the accident, before she disappeared, faded away, died, and whoever it is who disposes of us or disperses us did just that to her. He traces a finger over the letters of her name. Our intent gaze drifts to the shocking map of his face. Every picture tells a story, and there on his we see it all. From inside the fog, out there and beyond, we hear a bell tolling. Could be the bell of a marker buoy afloat; nudged by wind or wave, the wake of a passing boat, or the spreading circles of Marie's sudden remembrance.

chapter 191- mutiny
Tis just then that we come to the end of the road, to where the land ends and the sea begins. We pause there with the mention of Marie weighing heavy on our hands. We look about in search of something lighter, subject matter for an innocuous and distracting comment, anything will do; the temperature, invisibility, mortality, immorality, even the economic recession. But no, there is nothing, nothing but the roll of waves on rock and sand. We will have to leave it at that, to rely on the soothing nature of that sound to relieve our ills. We do not and will not tire of hearing it, … ever. Tis like a drug, but let's not mention those right now. I place a hand on the Flea's shoulder to register my sympathy for his distress, this distress that he has presented us with so sketchily. After all, we do not want to overdo our reaction. From what he has told us, it was by no means the most enduring of relationships and could conceivably have grown to unrealistic proportions in the Fleas inflamed mind. Or are we being harsh? I turn to the others for confirmation, for direction. I look to the right, look to the left and look to the right again but I do not see them anywhere. I turn right round and look behind me. Nobody is following. Nobody. I wait there, listening intently for the amusing banter that often precedes them as they wander in the world. None, nothing but the road stretching back a short distance and dissolving in this ubiquitous fog. I look at the Flea and he looks at me. Clearly these infrequent pangs and yearning for long-gone Marie are nothing now compared to the urgency of my discovery. My eyes stretch wide. And the others, I hear myself plead. The Flea shrugs. It is his answer to just about everything, being a staunch advocate of amnesia. The others, I say again, feeling the unexpected stab of their absence.

chapter 192 - the blob
We sit on the damp, soft sand. Tis stained from a night of stormwater and effluent, scattered with things spat out by the sea. The waves unfurl before us without respite. If I just had a guitar to hold, I say, being as I am, guitarless … and bereft. Was about to say the same, says the Flea. (I picture him there beside me, igniting the morning with his chrome-necked guitar, more like a wrecking yard tool than a musical instrument, screeching and moaning as he torments it with his barbs.) We sit in silence and contemplate things we lack, things we once had but lost, things we never had but wanted, things we could have had but didn't know we wanted, things we didn't want but should have had. We sit in silence absorbed in unrestrained missing. Productive it isn't, but it passes the time just the same. I pull the journal, the dairy, the log, the toilet roll from my pocket. Overnight it has been soaked and has swollen into a luminous blob, (something like a sucked mango seed) impossible now to peel apart or decipher, without, that is, lodging it with the most up-to-date of forensic labs and submitting it to infrared and ultraviolet analysis, echo sounds and X-rays. It's all in here, I say, waving the blob in the Flea's face. This is our only earthly manifestation of places we have been, things that we have felt and done. If it were not for the weight of this circumstantial evidence I could well be accused of making it all up. What, that? says the Flea. I thought you'd found something for us to eat. That's all that interests me right now, … apart from a drink. I put the blob back in my pocket and fetch a five-litre plastic water bottle from further down the beach. This, I reason, being the ideal receptacle for a log such as ours, having reached its fruition. Message in a bottle. Why, I could pop it inside, screw on the lid (which has been located) and hurl the whole thing out to sea where it would be carried on the currents, day in and day out, come rain or shine, in sickness and in health, across the latitudes and down the longitudes, bobbing and blowing on the sea's restless skin, spinning on the spume, bounced by adolescent dolphins, barged by middle-aged whales, sat on and shat on by terns, bitten by turtles, sheltering shoal fish, shagged by jellyfish, bleached and brittled by the sun, overblown by the heat of the tropics, brushed aside by passing tankers, pissed on by pirates, captured by Google Earth, held hostage by the tides, squatted by barnacles, serenaded by squid, bullied by sharks, sighted by solo round-the-world sailors, challenged by swordfish, swallowed and regurgitated by sunfish, wooed by wobbegongs, propelled by all and sundry across the oceans to some unsuspecting shore where it is washed up in a wadding of seaweed and debris, tangled fishing line and trawler floats, bits of Styrofoam and blown bulbs, crankshafts and driftwood and drowned kittens, coconuts and coat hangers and condoms, washed up and waiting for its time to come, to be one day picked up and opened, tentatively shaken and sniffed, the contents subsequently extracted with great care and extreme difficulty, warmed in an oven and dried in the sun, prised apart with scalpel and tweezers, dexterity and endless patience, till it is unravelled and unrolled down the hall and up the stairs, over beds and chairs, in one window and out the other, rigged up on coat-hangers, string and ingenuity, then deciphered with the aid of imagination and a magnifying glass and dictated with crisp diction onto a some sucker's hungry hard drive. Just imagine.

chapter 193 - it ain't easy
A glint of sun escapes, slips past the clouds and graces the world we see from where we are seated. I have the blob in my hand again and try from various different angles and in different frames of mind to insert it into the neck of the bottle. The Flea glances sideways at me. He doesn't have to say it, but he thinks that I am mad. Such a simple and ingenious solution in theory, such a challenge in practice. It ain't easy, ain't easy at all. I stare down the neck of the bottle, willing it bigger. Obsessed I am with this mission of mine, but do not ask me why or what for. I am clearly mad. Still, I insist, screwing and prodding the wad of rolled paper and scrawled words into the orifice to the bottle. Those slices of sun are skipping across the water now, flashes of brilliance, dashes of joy, laying a golden path before us that leads to nowhere. The Flea gets up and wanders away, only to return a short time later with a page of newspaper in his hand. He pulls an expendable lighter from an unthinkable hiding place somewhere in his boxer shorts, lights the page, makes a torch of it and rams that into the empty water bottle. We watch it briefly burn there inside, flare up and glow and smoke and just when it begins to perish the Flea stuffs the blob into the neck of the bottle. The plastic bottle puckers itself up as the oxygen inside is consumed and the atmosphere outside pushes to get in. Tis a common enough phenomenon. The bottle has gone skinny and is sucking itself silly, the Flea is beating the blob with his fist, when lo and behold, the vacuum in the bottle sucks our dear log, our lists and jotting, our rhymes and ranting, our diary dearest down inside it; Thlup! Bewildered it is now, inside the bottle with the smoke and the ashen paper flakes. The Flea gives me a satisfied and endearing look. He doesn't have to say it, but he thinks that he is a genius. And there before us is the evidence, a time capsule of sorts, an enigma. I screw on the lid in case the blob is subsequently spat out. Doesn't every action have an equal and opposite reaction? Or am I missing something? I look up at the Flea questioningly, as if we no longer have the ability or need to speak. The Flea has curiously turned -dare we say it- a whiter shade of pale. Forgive me for this cheap and unoriginal thought, but truly, he has begun to go transparent. We can see right through him to the scrubby hillock beyond. Tis dotted with whitewashed walls and modest kitchen chimneys, terracotta rooves and satellite dishes. Seagulls wheel and glide low over the good morning fog.

chapter 194 - where was I
I stare right through the Flea, and who knows, he is probably staring right through me. With occasional glances and shrugs we hope to keep our scant communication alive. What if I lose his track and signal completely? He turns his face to mine, waving his claw-like hands about. He's pulling faces, making himself wide and then tall, as if in a sideshow hall of mirrors or engaged in some frantic mime. What can I do but smile before such a display. I nod encouragingly, urging him on to his conclusion. "And? So?" I mouth at him. He points at me, grins, wiggles his fingers in the air to conjure up smoke or fog or some other amorphous thing. "Not me" I attempt to say. "It's not me who's dissolving into thin air." I open my mouth to speak, to say as much, but of course no sound emerges. I have apparently fallen under the jurisdiction of dreams, been slipped into a parallel and mute existence where I now rely on an orchestra pit pianist to convey my every thought, word and deed. I pinch myself on the arm -I'll try anything- to no avail. I do, however, notice that the arm I have just pinched is strangely hairless and covered in tattooed doodles. That is to say, it's not my arm at all, but the Flea's arm that has miraculously taken its place. I keep this disturbing revelation under my hat and note a kind of hush that has fallen, here, there and everywhere. The newly come sun is sweeping aside the fug and burnishing these earthly furnishings; the flattened sand, the misty brine blowing off rising shoulders of waves, a pair of lackadaisically squabbling gulls, this smoke and blob-filled bottle I have in my hands. I have not now the energy nor inclination to toss it out to sea. What difference could it possibly make? I let it fall to the ground and dig my hands into the mud-filled pockets of this coat I'm suddenly wearing, coming across an infinite distraction of sandworms, hermit crabs, cockles, winkles, shackles and chain, seaweed, mould and alloy plectrums. Now, … where was I?

chapter 195 - unreal gone
Where was I? Ah yes, … nowhere. Wandering nowhere. Vagabonding along. It all comes rushing back, day after day and night after night, exposed to the elements, sometimes wet and cold, sometimes not, begging and scrounging meagre things to masticate or sip. (It's the sipping that sustains.) Amidst surges of missing, yearning and disappointment comes the good ship Better Times, full steam ahead, flags waving. Ah, … better times. I am suddenly prone to non-specific recollections and feelings, not exactly mine, but whose? At the same time I have a sinking, falling feeling that I have begun to dissolve into this sand on which I sit. This warm and endless matter tis absorbing me into its infinity. The sensation is not at all bad I must say, to feel oneself slipping through the neck of an hourglass, the ultimate letting-go, utmost exhilaration. No light now. Blackness. Numbness. The hum of otherness. Don't ask me to analyse and extrapolate. It's all new to me. Some kind of metamorphosis going on no doubt, a reorganisation, a realigning of matter. Can do no harm. I hear the waves caressing the shore and deep down the incessant bubble and hum of magma at the earth's core. Sounds to me like a valve amp turned up to notch 10 with nothing plugged in. Over-amplified vibes. Imagine it. The sound of otherness, short-wave radio picking up otherworldly emissions, squeezing them through transistors, diodes and resistors. Nocturnal transmissions. All that kind of thing. Totally wired, electromagnetic exuberance, a sonic boomerang, like being on a roller-coaster but with no carriage and no fucking rails. Like stumbling upon some unknown chord; a demented H minor 13th or some such frigging thing, like the strings springing up from the frets to meet your fingers to produce a solo of astounding pretensions, one that pops your eyes, sets your hair adrift and your very bones a ringing. Cosmic, narcotic, meteorologically chaotic, astrologically idiosyncratic, wholly orgasmic, an authentic button-pusher, a unreal buzz. And ain't it worth the wait? Amidst all of this -and no less amazing- the fact that I cannot remember who I am, or what road I took to bring me here. Or was it a door I slipped through, or a rabbit's burrow that I inadvertently tumbled down, like poor little Alice. And perhaps the best is yet to come, as I am travelling now at an unbelievable rate through utter darkness, registering neither hot nor cold. Enveloped in utterness. Real gone. No vessel, just me-ness in the it-ness.

chapter 196 - immense relief
"Darling." Someone shakes my arm. "You'd best get moving or you'll miss the boat. The band'll leave without you." I lift my head from the table. I must have fallen asleep. The empty lunch plates are at my elbows. There by the door, my duffle bag and guitar. "The strangest of dreams," I say, but she has already gone, is out on the balcony watering the plants. I can hear her out there and see the breeze at the open door, gently dancing with the curtains. I sit up straight and rub my eyes. Looking out through the balcony doors, out over the rooftops and forest of aerials, in the direction of the port, just as the lonely call of a ship's horn sounds and hangs in the air with imminent departure, or at the end of its journey with immense relief.

chapter 197 - imminent departure
I make my way, hurrying down these streets towards the port and imminent departure, striving as I go to clear away the fog of sleep and dislodge this notion of dreamland that I still have fixed before my eyes and where I partly still reside. Neither here nor there, you could say. These buildings, the people I pass in the street, are impressing on me now the strength of their resolve. That is to say, for the time being at least, this appears to be what is real. The other members of the band are waiting at the ferry terminal. They cannot leave without me. I have the tickets. So, on I rush down street and lane, leaping steps and jumping drains, only slowing as I pull out my watch to calibrate and confirm the magnitude of my delay. I'm on my way, embarking on this next great adventure, guitar on back, bag in arms, ferry loading, passengers boarding, the clip, clop, clip of shoes on the paving stones. My shoes. My stones. My city. What could be better? What could? Tell me all about it, you could say.

chapter 198 and chapter 1 - and so it goes
The crew went into intensive training and were all subsequently awarded their sea-legs. Some specialised in navigation, others in carpentry, first aid and even voodoo. I'm proud of them, I really am. We set sail for Ibiza, the four of us on the foredeck of that mighty ferry, bow-spray foaming and hissing below us, the wind in our hair, a Titanic affair and no iceberg in sight. A discreet and distant moon shone down and made a little patch of magic on the sea. It were real pretty and the journey had only just begun.

*

... and so it goes