Excl story: What Did You Do 3 Years 227 Days 14 Hours 56 Minutes & 2 Seconds Ago?; Hootsville - house/disco mix; every novel - poem: Tales From The UniversE 63 - newsletter from Glorious Rain
An arcadia of imagination
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1. Kid Paradise’s Spring Beach Bar is Vild and Vild. And Vild. And, wait a minute: VILD-ER than last week!!! And is hitting mid-May like The Paradise Kid is born a trillion times each decade while exulting in a perma-mid-life non-and actual crisis
May is here and
what else
to do
than listen
LOUD
to Kid P’s tuuuuunnnnnnnneS???
‘Hootsville’
Kid Paradise In The Mix Is Handing It Out!!!
2. It is all art, baby
Under some trees - recently
3. Poem: every novel
every novel a noir
every novel wuthering heights
4. Short Story
What Did You Do 3 Years 227 Days 14 Hours 56 Minutes & 2 Seconds Ago?
The wet coming through the window. The sound of the rain. Like forgotten oceans re-rise and cascade and hurl in from the planets to flow past the houses and the streets awash with no one and what he wished was to sit by the open glass and listen to this majesty sooth and at 4.35 this summer morn the precipitation came down warm and fecund and heavy and relentless from the heavens streaked a deep orange and he left his abode and walked.
Strolled through birdflute and birdchirp garbed in a pair of Wrangler denim cutoffs and lightyellow t-shirt and blue raincoat and sneakers and the water underfoot squelching and he headed for the hills for the cottage on the brow of Little Shrigley.
He shouldered a small backpack that contained a notepad, two pencils, an eraser, a flask of fresh and hot tea, a quarter of large rimmed pork pie baked yesterday afternoon and set overnight in the fridge as nightfall came and the light drizzle started up that became the relentless precipitation of these early hours of morn.
He left the road and climbed the lanes of Higher Poynton through the rain, the hedges a rich deep green from summer’s heat and at Little Shrigley he saw the cottage. It was white and single storied and single fronted and he walked the door and took a breath, ready for resistance, to be rebuffed.
The notes of a blackbird mellifluous stopped him as he went to knock and he walked back and across the lane and sat out the wet in a bus shelter on the route from here to Bollington and watched the yellow wildflowers that sprouted in the longgrass of the lane and took his breakfast.
Tea from the flask and the pie, the jellied top and crust and pork shoulder and smoked bacon and mace baked light and firm and the shape of a star stenciled into the top of the crust by his daughter who called what he now ate a ‘star pie’ and the light of these dawn hours a swirl of shaded turquoise and blues and aureole greens and all is out there somewhere and here too.
He finished up. He would always be finishing something up.
This time he took his notepad and a pencil from the backpack and walked to the door and did not hesitate. A knock on the panelled wood, sounds within, perhaps a cat meowing, the door opens.
She is there. Before him.
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