I began, seven years ago.. several Ralphs. Several writing and visual arts projects. One is - or was, "the art of Ralph". I loved Ralph. And in fact seven years ago i managed to cycle onm a very very old sit up and beg bicycle, NO NEON!!, and no onboard water, or 'energy drinks' or 'rehydration' systems...on the hottest day of the year, all the way from the Kington area, up over part of East Snowdonia, to the North Wales woodland burrial plot, where at last i sat by his grave...
great ferking ultra poignant romantic story.
Especially as on the top of a Snowdonia pass i met up with THE one most ultra goddess woman, who age 18 i had had to leave the country (i do not ever exaggerate) to get away from, as her and her tribe, were my best companera/os for a year... a truly sublime rural nights atop hills.. the odd spliff... all so perfectly wholesome.. her with him - the one who took to punk the most - i still remember his pink stripey trousers... and they were a great couple. And even if after a year of being truly great mates, that night, her and i alone at the party before the others arrived..you realise "fuckety fuck... i don't know what 'this' is... but i like, value, and adore her.... i cannot stop knowing she is the best of all of it.. love, friendship, true equal minds..." yep... the big one... but the rules of the universes - the enlightened ones that is, are NEVER...
Attempt to endear onesself that way to another's partner... "leave the country, backpack, Australia here we come... as there is no way i can even be in the same side of the world as her and forget about how wonderful our time has been..as friends...and..."
thirty plus years later... by pure random (connected with Corbyn) randomness.... i see her... and a year later we are reunited atop a sunny high mountain pass...me crawling up the last few hundred metres... panting...to say the least.
To spend...well, one would have assumed - especially as we had spent a a year often messaging...and her hearing the truth, a good sane balanced weekend me as houseguest... even if her inability to ever actually read and write messages, had been obvious, despite her great intelligence in the past...all three types.
Let's just say a few days around her kitchen table...with number two son there too, despite being a senior registered SRN... many years on the wards, one knows when one encounters someone simply no longer really 'human' - in a simple oldschool way of question, answer, smile.... relax ...
etc
Forty years of (as they all say) 'recreational' cannabis...
Had clearly for many years caused her to be 'addicted' and simply rotted her head...to sum it up.
But that is that... to even hear her balk at me " he comes here...to our village up in hills...,...and goes out walking! [ a bit] ...what a tit..."
But worse " silly person... the idea one can have any original or poetical thought stone cold drug free sober... you lost it man..."
On your taxpayer cash
Ids the definition of tragedy, as much as had she had actual dementia brain rot, whereby the original person is...gone..
Anyway cheerier things:
For a decade - 13 years in fat..i take many arty photos... almost all set in rural places; But i try to capture the real things ongoing in society.
Had i photod her - the first love of life, it would have been the struggle i had to just get her to go for a shorter walk, and sit on some black plastic bales of chemically manufactured hay...
and 'play'
We were still eighteen...
But that would be far too 'intrusive' so..
SO i keep to pictures of farmers breaking every rural rule forever - grubbing up decent wood, high in the hills, and creating massive pyres...of wood that could heat local houses for a decade...
and torchin it...just because they CAN!
And i know farms and land and environmentalism.... (they hate - 99% of them)
For a long time i have tried to photograph such sorrows in an artistic way - and have ten terabytes of the bloody stuff...
Some quite good.
And video 'installations' ... hundreds but the written poetical word matters more to me - i enjoy it - no matter what sorrowful story is in the background...
Usually they are all the same: self regard = atomisation and inability to truly cooperate even in rural fringe areas where cooperation was always essential...and nuthins changed! And... a bit more stemming from all that...
But i like trying to turn such fatal misery into art that is a bit alive..
even include true humour - especially self deprecating
preaching NEVER works
(it would have been the ultimate performance philosophical art had i expired 50 metres from reencountering her of course...atop the high pass... and would have saved me from tragedy - knowing that the one true hope...even she fucked herself by lifestyle and ... [to be cont].. and the biggest waste of time ever this century... except at least she drove me later on to find his grave...she wouldn't even come and see with me... because it was outdoors and there were bugs around and about in the woodlands
All, if i were able to write music, i would weave into superb operas...
As i know that the rest of my life, allegorical, metaphorical, artsy fartsy... writing about only the past - is a such a joy...
I cannot wait.
Now SHE is gone...over, did my best... and i know she will be dead or suffering serious hospitalisation required crackup, within a year if not sooner.sad when i had the last few weeks moments of true enjoyment of her
And no one would help....and she is far prettier than I...
