In Every Dream Home a Heartache
So, dental records have confirmed that actor and monologist Spalding Gray had, as feared, thrown himself off the Staten Island Ferry back in January. That man needed a blog. A conduit to his audience. A link that would have allowed a little two-way communication. Communication that could have maybe kept him buoyed up enough to still be with us. (Pun intended btw - I think he would've liked that.)I still remember the effect Swimming to Cambodia had on me the first time round. One man, a desk, some notebooks and a story to tell of the time he was an actor with a small part to play in Roland Joffe's Killing Fields. Absolutely riveting. One camera for 90% of the performance. A few scenes from the movie thrown in. Genius. No doubt he'll start getting the accolades he deserved in life now. Stilll, as long as his work finds a new audience.
Perhaps that was his intention as he gazed into those murky waters. Artistic temperaments can be strange bedfellows.
Not swimming but drowning. (With apologies to Stevie Smith)
As I write I'm listening to a few of those MP3 CDs that are readily available from any market stall, car-boot sale or *dodgy* mate at work. Artwork as well as music included so true
One in particular has just transported me back 30-odd years. The Best Prog Rock Album in the World Ever. From a waist-thickened, almost 50 year-old semi-detached suburban Mr Jones, I'm spinning - Quantam Leap-like against a Bridget Riley background - to the early 70s. Radical. On the verge of changing the World. Fighting oppression and injustice wherever I chance upon it....and bedding the grateful and adoring females I emancipate along the way. Jam sessions are organised with the recently free musicians and profound, ground-breaking albums are recorded with the more talented and original.
In my *spare* time I express myself visually; creating massive canvasses of stunning, yet controversial beauty. My autobiography - though short - is a bestseller. I stand, a modern colossus: my flares flapping wildly as the winds of change caress my perfectly chiselled jaw. All over the Western World proud parents are christening their offspring OccupiedCountry.
On occasion - despite the pain from my freedom fighter wounds, I'm able to turn out for Manchester City (left side of midfield - a creative and cultured genius). This doesn't happen often as in the early 70s the team win trophy after trophy without my help. They also take the piss out of the Red half of Manchester on a regular basis. Soon we will be helping to relegate them with the fortuitous help of an ex-Old Trafford favourite. Life is anything but nasty, brutish and short.
Ah yes! A Leviathan. That was me.
Actually, 30 years ago today (11th March 1974) I started a proper, married man's job. Just for a few weeks you know. To pay the rent, buy a carpet, some food, curtains, nappies for the new nipper, something to sit on in our newly-acquired flat (£6.25p per week. Almost fully-furnished), and keep us going until I was recognised as the clever and talented git I really was.
After that I figured the World was my oyster.
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