Today’s blog post is going to be a little bit different. For one I am typing with lemon scented fingers which isn’t normal but I have hurled myself into the manufacture of 3 fruit marmalade, lime curd, steamed chocolate puddings, cleaning out the fridge and various other ventures that have me away from the computer for most of the day. A mysterious guest blogger has asked me if I would allow them to post a little post today and who am I to deny an edge of mystery to Serendipity Farm? (Especially when my fingers are lemon scented and busy ). So without any further ado, please welcome my special guest blogger “El Nacho Libre” who must remain anonymous to protect his identity from those who would oppress his freedom of speech. Let’s just say he is a cross between Che Guevara and Mahatma Gandhi. Here are his sage words for you all to mentally inhale, process and learn from. Consider yourselves all “Young Padawan’s” for this post…
“I have a little black book with my poems in …that’s a line from a pink Floyd song , I think memories are a thing we all have stored in different ways , some take pictures and frame them , some write words in books and diaries , some put them in a box in a spare room and sometimes they look at them. I have mine stashed all over the place in my chaotic ways.
I have a collection of old cases that I have inherited here, one sits forlorn in the garage rat chewed and full of sheet music, I have been through the music and saved what is not to badly eaten for a project I have in mind the rest of it is a memory of a person I have never met or known but that case holds a life’s musical memories. What we leave here when we depart is just that, memories of us and what we were and did. This post isn’t sad I just have these cases which held things in them , one is a wraaf case (women royal Australian air force) one is a case which has one of the locks shut and I don’t want to open it, one is from a very old trumpet that I have here from the Albany band of many years ago and the other is a clarinet case that I was sent by Margaret Stahl just before she died she was going to send me an old violin for my music room but I don’t have that case . I have never played the trumpet but again memories are in its valves as with the clarinet. I have an old guitar that I bought 30 years ago I have spilt my blood on the strings of that guitar and it holds my memories in it.
A memory can be a plaque on a church, a seat built for someone who has passed away. It can be a flower or a smell that takes you back to a place in time, the feel of something. You can close your eyes and see a place, person, thing and relate it back to yourself and your story. A stone can hold a billion memories, the wall of a house can reverberate with the lives lived in there. They can be bad memories they can be wonderful ones but they are a shadow of what was and now has passed, as each day dawns a new memory is created with the way the sun rises and the river wends its way in and out on the tides. The time you see on the face of the clock is the present and the present passes in the blink of an eye. We are all someone’s future memory and someone’s smell feel or touch; we are just that at the end of the day. We dream a dream and become a memory
My cases all have a story some may be good some bad, some have seen war and some just peace time, I don’t know, they are not my memories but I am the keeper of those memories now.
I’ve got a little black book with my poems in.
Got a bag with a toothbrush and a comb in.
When I’m a good dog, they sometimes throw me a bone in.
I got elastic bands keepin my shoes on.
Got those swollen hand blues.
Got thirteen channels of shit on the T.V. to choose from.
I’ve got electric light.
And I’ve got second sight.
And amazing powers of observation.
And that is how I know
when I try to get through
on the telephone to you
there’ll be nobody home.
I’ve got the obligatory Hendrix perm.
And the inevitable pinhole burns
all down the front of my favourite satin shirt.
I’ve got nicotine stains on my fingers.
I’ve got a silver spoon on a chain.
I’ve got a grand piano to prop up my mortal remains.
I’ve got wild staring eyes.
And I’ve got a strong urge to fly.
But I got nowhere to fly to.
Ooooh, Babe when I pick up the phone
“Surprise, surprise, surprise…”
There’s still nobody home.
I’ve got a pair of Gohills boots
and I got fading roots.”
Well that was a bit different wasn’t it folks. I hope you all enjoyed this wonderful guest post and by the way…any resemblance between El Nacho Libre, my mysterious guest blogger and Steve is entirely coincidental