Discipline, discipline, discipline
Once upon a time a boy by the name of Kenneth Gaspar was born. A Hawaiian man he was. Soon to be a musician and have a beard. Somewhere between 1953 and 2002 Kenneth adopted the nickname of "boom" thus creating the organ, piano and keyboard master, Boom Gaspar. Why is this important? Becuase in 2002 Boom teamed up with a little band called Pearl Jam, and the free world became a little more free.
The whole world has gone to shit. I have far too much homework to do and it must be done before thursday. Why? Because thursday this reporter heads down to Georgia (possibly accompanied by the devil) to protest the School of the Americas as it is a training centre for human rights violaters and a breeding ground for killing machines. On top of all of this, Isabelle thinks I'm predictable.
I think I'd like to drop out of school and get myself a nice little patch of beach somewhere. I could build a nice little shelter, maybe hang up that picture of the dogs playing poker. During the day I would teach myself to surf and feast on the fresh fruits that surrounded my personal beach. Sometime in the early evening I could fashion myself a meal and pretend I'm Survivorman for an hour or so.
Once the sun went down and the moon was high in the sky I would go swimming, night swimming. Of course while I am night swimming I will be listening to the song "night swimming" by R.E.M. (I suppose I will need hydro and a stereo)
I would remain on this beach for the rest of my days. Safety, Obscurity.
Shortly before I died on this beach I would sit down and write a book. I would then ensure that someone found this book eventually. Then, Whoever possessed the book would be so excited and anxious to read my last words and life story. They would open the book only to find that I had written a book of clever limericks. Inside the back cover would be a picture of me mooning the reader.
If thats not happiness I dont want to know what is.
Maybe there would be a small villiage near my beach and I could befriend the townsfolk.
I could bring them something from my beach in exchange for a banjo, I've always wanted to know how to play the banjo.
Of course this all sounds silly
and it is
silly indeed
Simply picturing this setting is a mood booster
Maybe if Frank knew about this beach he wouldn't have burned his house down and hit the hollywood freeway. Poor Frank (See: Tom Waits' "Frank's Wild Years")
Needless to say I would prefer this beach to my current place of residence, suburban london. I'm trapped here, away from said beach, and the bus drivers are on strike. Oh well, life goes on, and then you die, seems about right. I suppose we're all in this together, in one way or another.
But just as a heads up
if anyone comes across this kind of beach in their travels
for the love of all things good, plant yourself there and never leave.
surfs up
*guitar solo*
-wingfield
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