Ten Easy Pieces

Dear Chroniclers,

so who knows where time goes ... ?

It seems like just a few moments ago I was celebrating the arrival of my half-century, but so much has happened since then. Not for the electrofried's the slowing waters of middle-age - everything in our lives right now appears to have been turned upside down, and you find us spinning like some Pooh-sticked flotsam and jetsam well out from the left bank of humanity's torrid and ever-hurrying stream.

Downwardly Mobile

If it had been just one thing it would be taken in its stride, but no, change assaults us on all sides as loudly as the competing banshee wails of shop-soiled muzak that assailed our ears this very morn as we made our way though the market-stalls of Little Wittering in search of some new mobile-phonery for my dear mrs. electrofried.

Regrettably, the half-brick that occupied much of her hand-tooled marmoset embroidery bag these years past, had all but given up the ghost. We took teenygoth with us for protection. At least she was sufficiently proficient in the language of the street to interpret the strange guttural grunts and techno-speak that passes loosely for speech these days. Just what is a "mega-pixel" and why does every telephone appear to come ready-equipped with blue dental-wear? Life is just too darned confusing!

A Puzzling Affair

Much to teenygoth's mortification, mrs electrofried seized upon the spottiest of the spotty work-experience shop-assistants who staffed the cacophonous shop we ended up in. Meanwhile, I took up position on the side-lines, pointedly ignoring the entreaties of the strangely pneumatic lady manager who spotted me dawdling in the aisles.

"Can I help you, darling?",

is perhaps not the best of opening lines in life's endlessly amusing catalogue of sales-pitches. I turned the other way, and set to with my Sudoko whilst mrs electrofried and teenygoth merrily pressed buttons and compared memory capacities. Frankly, the whole thing was a complete mystery to me and I contented myself by pencilling in a few random jottings to the squared puzzle before me.

At length, the transaction was completed. Money exchanged hands and mrs electrofried emerged blinking into the daylight from the blackened abyss of "Phones'R'Us" clutching a carrier bag containing the spoils of her foraging.

The swirl of time

I mentioned life has become a spinnying eddy of late.

Family issues spring up like the gaily-coloured daffodils and tulips that currently adorn the grounds of the House. We've moved churches too, and become Methodists, though I've yet to summon up the courage to announce this to the Vintners of Little Wittering who depend so much upon us for their livelihood. The credit-crunch will appear little more than a minor book-keeping blot in the annals of their balance-sheets once the endless stream of alcohol-related orders from the House dries to no more than a trickle. And time in the horology factory is ticking slightly faster than the norm.

But even amongst all this chaos, there is hope. Teenygoth has taken to purchasing the NME at regular intervals and in a recent, unguarded moment confessed a passing interest in the contents of the electrofried music-library. At last, a scion of electrofried who may be fit to inherit her father's burgeoning collection! So tonight, as I sit in my bath-chair sipping a restorative glass of the finest triple-strength Chimay (yet another sin to be confessed come the morn) I've set my mind to ""Ten Easy Pieces", a short catalogue of electrofried's life to date, as set to music.

This posting is accordingly dedicated to my youngest ... and I shall await, with no little trepidation, to see if she deigns post a comment in response. Welcome then, darling teenygoth, to the music of your father - the rhythm that has restored, enthused and enthralled me through a half-century and more.

And so here it is "Pop-pickers"!

10. Fresh in at no. 10, the sound of Siouxsie and the Banshees live at the Tynemouth Plaza, on their very first UK tour. I won two tickets on a (non-mobile) phone-in by spelling, "Siouxsie" correctly - not a particularly difficult task given my infatuation with her kohl-stained cheek-bones. Your mother, no more than a teenager herself, was embraced tenderly to the cascading feedback of "Mittageisen"!

9. The theme to "Midnight Cowboy", a sound tracked memory of a film that even now reduces me to tears just thinking about it. Is the reverberating harmonica of life just a last post to a sad existence, or the turning point to a bright new future in the sun? Discuss. Alternatively, you could watch the DVD once you're old enough to satisfy the British Board of Film Censors.

8. "I'm only sleeping". There has to be a Beatles song in there, somewhere. And what could be more apposite for a somnambulant father whose cat-napped existence is punctuated by the most piercing of snores?!

7. A non-mover at no. 7, the chiming guitars of "The Byrds" with, "Chestnut Mare", a particular favourite of your mother.

6. When I was but a teenager myself, I stole on occasion into my elder brother's bedroom in search of a particular album that still thrills me to this day. As you practice guitar up in the East Wing of the House, dear teenygoth, reflect on the genius that is Jimi Hendrix, and his stunning debut, "Are You Experienced".

5. "T Rex", is, I'm afraid, yet another sound of my youth. My very first foray into the purchase of music involved an off-line transaction behind the school bicycle-sheds, in which money changed hands and your father acquired a second-hand copy of the inaugural album of the freshly abbreviated, "Tyrannosaurus Rex". I sense an imminent negotiation with Master Amazon to acquire this afresh once I've finished with my tawdry list of musicology.

4. Over the last few months you have borne stoically the depletion of an ever-dwindling inheritance as yet more Miles Davis box-sets have made their way to the tradesman's entrance of the House. When you are much older yourself, spin "Kind of Blue" in memory of your father, for he found much peace amongst the space of these crystalline modal forms.

3. David Bowie, much like Miles Davis, mastered many a transformation in his time. "Heroes" is, forever, a favourite of your mother and I.

2. Sometimes life has shades of darkness, and in "Joy Division's", "Love will tear us apart", there is no finer.

1. But, as always, there is hope too! I think it unlikely you will ever chance upon the full King Tubby extended mix of this glittering jewel, but you will find the original version of "Love is a Treasure" on a Pressure Sounds' Carlton Patterson compilation called, "Psalms of Drums". It's secreted deep within the electrofried music library - enjoy, for love is indeed a treasure ...

... and much love to you, darly teenygoth!


as ever,

electrofried (mr)

p.s. mrs electrofried has passed by briefly to view my random jottings en route to the bed chamber and a relaxing infusion of Horlicks. Ears have been soundly boxed concerning the omission of anything by the Doors, the Clash and many others besides. Anyone for an extended electrofried Top Twenty?

Stories from the Apocalypse - Splintered

A beginning

We dance endlessly round the fire in celebration, sparks to the bright midnight, holding hands and watching it burn up. In the flickering light, he's out there, watching over us.

Exit

... spinning silently into darkness, across space and time.

The Procession

It's pitch black. I hear a car pull up the drive. Voices, yes voices at last - the voices of Madeline and Eugene. They're coming for me and there's no escape. My fate is silence, but what did I ever do to deserve this?

Scraping at the front door with keys and laughter and the lights go on. I shrink from light. It blinds what little's left of my sight. The sound of their laughter comes again, tumbling into the cottage, taunting me, and here we are, the three of us together, one last time. But what's this they're carrying into the kitchen - a bag of nails? No, a toolbox!

They come close, and as the last of my sight slips away I sense a metallic glint below. Consigned to darkness. Eugene unlocks the box, pulls out a screwdriver, Madeline reaching for the bundle of keys hanging on the hook. I'm opened and they're at the fixings, scrabbling at the screws that twist and turn into me. A spiralling shaft of pain. One by one, until finally I'm undone and hanging loose.

Hands reach up to bear me off into the cold, night air. Warm hands that hold me aloft, carrying me out across the garden, into the field and my body is lifted higher still to the summit of a pyramid pile of sticks and branches and staves and shattered box-card rubbish. I rest there for a little time as a carnival procession of dogs circles around the stack.

I smell the petrol, see a spark ignite. Flames lick up the pyramid, but I feel no pain now. Just waiting for release as the heat burns. Waiting for my body to char until, at last, I'm ....

Time Comes

"We gotta burn this down, Gene. Now!"

Returning

It's the one thing we don't like about the cottage. ... well, I guess it just has all those strange old memories. We never really did get the kitchen sorted properly after it all happened, so now it's time to do something about it. I know what's got to go, that ugly old thing.

"Gene, go fetch the toolbox - we're going for a ride!"

We load up the back of the carrier and make out of town, the traffic beginning to thin as night folds over us. It cuts quick this time of year. Soon be Christmas, another year without him. It hurts - I can't make out for sure quite why I should miss him so. Those long nights alone, dreading his coming awake in the morning beside me. Miserable.

I drift off to sleep as Gene drives us there, nightmares twisting down the road after the carrier. I see Seth through the door, blood pooling out and I'm powerless to move. Paralysed, I watch as he comes toward me, his hands reaching for my throat, dragging me in. I see splinters in his hands, bloody splinters. Desperately, I cry out to break the spell.

Missed

One day, please ... I miss them so.

A certain emptiness

It's lonely here, swinging endlessly to and fro on my own. Sometimes they come back to visit and I half recognise faces and voices, distant memories of the smell of fresh-cut lamb cooking in the kitchen and dogs rushing past me out into the garden.

How quickly the children grow. I nearly caught hold of them a moment ago. How much I want to hug them in my arms again, hear their laughter. But they twist and turn away, out to the garden too in chase of some autumn leaves. One day I'll take them in my arms and draw them close.

Remembrance of Seth

I couldn't believe it when Eugene walked in, it was just like he was a doppelganger. Weird. One door closes and another opens. He said he'd just moved in opposite, and his eyes twinkled like I remembered Seth's. Twinkled, like when I first met Seth and he was this ... this gawky bundle of teenage energy and dreams and soft flaxen hair. Where did he go, damn him?

It was just another weekend at the cottage, but I couldn't take it anymore. I just couldn't take it. The kids said nothing, helped me mop up the mess, and all the time that bloody door swinging in the wind.

We got most of it up but there was one patch by the mat we couldn't shift. Pretended it was floor polish, pulled the mat across it and hoped it would go away. It never did.

Contre Jour

This feels so good. My arm's not stiff anymore. Sure, there's some residual pain down my side, two thin sets of gouge marks, but who cares. He's gone now - just swinging there. Nailed! And I'm free to step out into this new joy.

I bet he thought he had me there, caught in his wooden embrace. But not now!

I laugh and laugh and laugh as a pack of dogs race in to greet me. The kids aren't far behind, and with them comes Madeline.

Madeline. She's silhouetted against a late afternoon sun, its rays streaming through loose gaps in her clothing, flowing out to reach me. I smile and make my entrance.

"Hi there, my name's Eugene - just moved in opposite."

Touched

... and I feel his touch as he leaves me swinging.

The separation

So here I am, screwed, just as I always wanted. But now the pain comes in waves as I sense him kicking out against the grain. This shouldn't have happened, this should never have happened. I thought we were going to be locked together, permanently.

But no, he's pulling against the grain and every sinew in me hurts. His form is bowed and poised, ready to pull free. Oh no - it's splintering!! I can feel him step out the door ...

Dreaming Again

Is this for real, or just some sick dream in the back of the carrier on the way to the bonfire? Why are the dogs so restless?

I look up and see Gene behind the wheel, he's humming some tune to keep himself awake.We seem to be on the way to the cottage once more, but I'm racing miles ahead of the carrier. All those leaves we scooped up together with the children, building up the pyre and now we're lifting that sick, ugly bloodstained door on top.

So just where did Seth go?

Cut

No escape - sealed. I bang shut.

Mounted

I get out the toolbox. The set of hinges I bought last weekend are there on top, waiting to be fixed. I like their shiny, metal glint - I need something to hold it all together right now, keep it all fastened in place. Permanently.

Madeline and the kids are out for the afternoon with the dogs on some country rambling blackberry-hunt adventure. Alone in the cottage, it's so quiet now they've gone. I lay out my tools on the kitchen floor and start to undress. A pile of discarded clothing and I reach for the sharpened chisel.

My leg is so stiff I can barely feel it touch the grain of my skin. The chisel digs in and shaves off some flesh, a neat rectangular groove. The tape-measure confirms some more has to come out and then it's done. I raise the chisel again, this time to my left arm. The grain is thinner here so it hurts some. A gush of blood onto the floor until the sap rises and seals over the wound, and now there are two neat slots waiting.

I fix myself. Seconds later the hinges are in and I'm up in place. Swinging.

Strange Behaviours

Why should a man pick up a brush and start to varnish his left arm? Seth's skin is an ebony bridge drying in the sun, stiffening.

Entrance

It' s a pin-prick, some loose irritation. I caught it on the back-door on the way out to the garden, chasing after the kids.

Holding my hand to the light I see a splinter digging in, piercing the flesh between the second and third fingers of my left hand. It seems to be burrowing in deep - the entry wound has sealed and a black tunnel leads towards the vein. Seeping.

I sense a hardening as it takes possession of me. Grain spreading out across my arm. I feel ...


...wooden.

Strange Days

Dear Chroniclers,

it seems an age since we last met.

The Christmas decorations have all been packed away, the tree long since dismembered, its skeletal spine consigned to rot in some darkened Anderson shelter out back of the House and life returns to what passes for normality ....

... except for the low feral howl emanating from deep within the inner sanctum that is electrofried's music room.

Three Presents

So did Christmas bring what you truly want? Now the tinsel has gone it's time to reflect on three different and very special presents.

So would you help me unwrap them all over again?

The Doors of Perception

It was there to greet me on Christmas morning. A neat box wrapped in gold paper placed lovingly beneath the pine-scented bowers of our family tree.

It contained a set of remastered CD's that took me way back to the spinning psychedelic haze of a red-brick University discotheque. Songs that sparked and burnt their way indelibly into my consciousness - songs that spoke of love and lust and death and strange deeds on an Indian highway.

Some music to open the Doors of Perception.

The Call of the Darkness

I spent many an evening after Christmas closeted alone in the music room, the sound cranked up high and drinking in the memories of the past. In my mind I danced on fire across a glistening Student Union floor, entwined in the embrace of my lover. Together we flew as one into the night.

Answering the Dionysian call.

Riders on the Storm

Was it chance or some strange sleight of hand from the Master Horologist that brought the muse from the past alive once more?

Shortly after Christmas the second present fell into my lap - a scented visitation. Turning over the pages of a magazine I chanced upon the tour itenary for "Riders on the Storm", the vestigial remains of a once great band that had opened the Doors for me, and many more besides. Plans were made, tickets purchased.

And so came a night of great magic, once more with my love entwined to the music. We danced on fire as it intends. The two original members of the band looked professorial and skeletal by turns, but how the majestic sound still sparked! Two men lost and found amidst the dignified splendour of a dying Dionysian call.

There is a sad and deeply beautiful feral cry that rings out from this music. The place where darkness and light intersect and the human condition is revealed. I hear it ring out each night as I return to the music room in response to its siren call.

An album opens

But what of the third present?

Over the Christmas break we paid a familial visit to the icy house of the Black Dowager. As ever, she was intent on expunging the memories of the past, but for once this gave rise not to pain but an opportunity for healing.

For some reason the photographic albums lodged in the bottom of her bedroom cupboard were causing her a problem that needed to be resolved. Rather than despatching them to oblivion I was given permission to root around. I emerged with two glittering prizes.

For those who have read "The Captain and the dirt-kneed schoolboy" may I share just one diamond-day jewel - the black and white photograph that appears above. It's a bear-hugged portrait of the two of us lost somewhere in time. And it bears the sweet smell of myrrh that one day will embrace us all ...

And with that thought in mind, may I wish you all a very happy New Year!

yours as ever,

electrofried (mr)