Sunday, 7 June 2015
King of Bongo, by Stevie Boring Haston.
The diversity of climbing on Gozo is "nae bad", but it is hot now, so the sea cliffs are gaining my attention more. It's funny how some people seem freaked out by being above the sea, and others just become mellow. I suppose it's all relative. I have certainly felt the cold tight hand of fear, but the twisting narly grip of terror that I used to feel in North Wales, doesn't seem so frequent here.
Some of the texture here is a bit over the top, we seem spoilt sometimes. What need of Art when Nature is so exuberant? The rock is carved, coloured, sometimes it's shaped by the wind, sometimes the sea, sometimes it's coated, sometimes it's jewelled. What a gift! Anyway to day I feel Ok, and will endeavour to be content. Why not?
The locals make all kinds of things out of these reeds. Sun blinds and flutes, they make a horrible screechy bag pipe out of a hollowed out goat. Funny, in my old home in France they had a bigger bagpipe made out of a year old sheep! A truly horrible noise is the bag pipe, only Scots deserve it.
Ah rock, what would my life be without it. It would be Merde, sheeet, and I would certainly be the King of Bongo, for there is too much nonsense in modern life, so you must be the King to float above it all. Fade Away and Radiate. When I die, I want some of my ashes in this pocket.