| ARCADIA
- by Tim Dry John lies curled into his favourite position on the small wicker sofa in the house in Weybridge. His eyes are closed. The acid starts to make it's initial presence felt deep down in his gut - that vaguely uneasy churning that signifies the onset of a familiar journey. But by now, here in 1966, life has become repetitive and far too comfortable for one of the most famous men on the planet. The only refuge apart from music it seems, is to chemically venture inwards and outwards. He hasn't been introduced to Transcendental Meditation yet, but he will be in only a matter of months. Paul keeps pushing, pushing and charming his own way forward and it's driving John mad. He doesn't stop. Why can't he just relax, be cool and share this wonderous inner space with his supposed partner? What's holding him back? The palms of John's hands seem transparent as he opens his eyes to stare at them. They're like doorways into a land of intrigue and possibility, his blood pulses with an exhilarating and dangerous vibrancy. His pupils are dark, dilated and unfathomable. Four bars of one of the best songs the world will never hear swirl in, and then out of, his consciousness. It's too late, he doesn't have the energy to pick up the guitar and attempt to drag it back into some cohesive reality. There'll be more. Those little gems are like buses, there'll be another along shortly. It's alright. Don't be concerned for him, he's got The Gift and he knows it. The whole world knows it. |
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He closes his eyes and lets the universe swarm
through the jaded cells of his brain. He thinks of Julia again. He always
will, it's unavoidable. She died just as he could have got to know her
once more. His mother. His beautiful, creative and (go on, admit it)
sexy mother. Snatched away by life's callous whim just when she was
ready to give her only son the love he craved. Is it any wonder he's
in pain? The entire population think they know him, his very name is
hallowed in every country in the world. But what does it really mean? |
hurling
it into the uncaring void. John tries to slow his heartbeat as the room
melts all around him. There's a picture that keeps on recurring in his
brain every time he gets this far out. He bought a print of it from the
Indica Gallery a few months ago. It's been created by a guy who reckons
he can capture the past and the future by using photographic montage.
Most people think the artist is an enigmatic crank, which makes John excited
and even more convinced of this person's talent. He's got the image framed
and hung on the wall of his cluttered home studio, above the ranked Brennell
tape machines that will enable him to realise some of his imminent and
'Non Fab' experimental musical ventures. The artist calls the picture
'Arcadia'. John's eyes slide shut once more and now he sees himself as
a young boy, inexplicably wearing Victorian clothing, standing at an opened
wooden gate, that reveals a landscape of waterfalls, strange trees and
pastoral quintessence. The enigmatic vista on the other side of the portal
teems and hums with ageless enquiry and possibility. A young girl clad
in white, with a circlet of pale flowers embracing her dark hair, is now
standing in front of him. Her eyes are full of Time's quixotic
mystery. She proffers a gift, something not quite recognisable but infinitely
and excitingly desirable to the boy with kaleidoscope eyes. Somebody calls
him, he answers quite slowly: "Julia?" "Of course, darling." "Why can't we be together?" "Shh. It's alright. We will be. This is my present to you for where you are now". "What is it?" "It's love. It is all you will ever need. Be strong. The best and the worst are yet to come." |
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| Text © Tim Dry 2004 |
