13/6/06
Aldeburgh to Winchester
In Winchester the insane Peter Baumann accosts me in a bar - his stream of consciousness ramblings jump all over the place as his mind cannot keep control - sometimes it comes close to genius, other times it is frightening - image piled up on image, some volatile disturbance deep in his psyche - he starts with reports of pianos on Brighton beach, his solid head moving sideways for fear he will be ejected form the premises - then his speech runs something like this: yeah, yeah fucking Brighton, the pianos, do you know who I am? It's hard for you - but you see I was fucked up the arse, sorry ladies forgive me - yeah, yeah - shake here, here, remember me - and so it goes and he offers a tattooed hand for me to shake, and reclines in the armchair in his shorts and T-shirt then leaps up and says something inaudible before leaving -
A puppet theatre placed in my bedroom - dusty and aged, it leaps to life whilst I am asleep - King Alfred has burnt the cakes and is running from his terrifying cook who wields her rolling pin and brings down the retribution of a blazing inferno starting in the kitchen - when the devil comes to take them both just before they are burnt to a crisp, it is the King who sells his soul and his (supposedly) scary cook relinquishes her body to the flames and to the afterlife - there is a thunderous round of applause - when I awake the show is long over but there is a dry taint of cinders on the air and of course the faint singing of a chorus of 28 amazing voices -
I have one question on my mind when I am fully awake, which I won't answer here: can you become attached to a landscape? And if so, why?
Aldeburgh to Winchester
In Winchester the insane Peter Baumann accosts me in a bar - his stream of consciousness ramblings jump all over the place as his mind cannot keep control - sometimes it comes close to genius, other times it is frightening - image piled up on image, some volatile disturbance deep in his psyche - he starts with reports of pianos on Brighton beach, his solid head moving sideways for fear he will be ejected form the premises - then his speech runs something like this: yeah, yeah fucking Brighton, the pianos, do you know who I am? It's hard for you - but you see I was fucked up the arse, sorry ladies forgive me - yeah, yeah - shake here, here, remember me - and so it goes and he offers a tattooed hand for me to shake, and reclines in the armchair in his shorts and T-shirt then leaps up and says something inaudible before leaving -
A puppet theatre placed in my bedroom - dusty and aged, it leaps to life whilst I am asleep - King Alfred has burnt the cakes and is running from his terrifying cook who wields her rolling pin and brings down the retribution of a blazing inferno starting in the kitchen - when the devil comes to take them both just before they are burnt to a crisp, it is the King who sells his soul and his (supposedly) scary cook relinquishes her body to the flames and to the afterlife - there is a thunderous round of applause - when I awake the show is long over but there is a dry taint of cinders on the air and of course the faint singing of a chorus of 28 amazing voices -
I have one question on my mind when I am fully awake, which I won't answer here: can you become attached to a landscape? And if so, why?
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