Alistair J. Bright

Oh, you're so spell-binding Jens, and I must apologize for still not having bought your album. I did however take the time to download all the mp3's up for grabs at your site, I did go and see your show in Rotterdam with two friends (and was stunned into glowing silence) and I did play your music so doggedly and so tactically, that my girlfriend has really started to like your music as well. Not a bad score eh? Unfortunately, I have little else to offer you, although you are more than welcome to check out the Crow Lost Tapes of course (see below, any musical accompaniment more than welcome). That, and extend you a warm invitation to the luscious little city of Leiden, next time you hit the Netherlands on tour. And please, keep that brass section, they are magic.

The tramp steamer lay anchored in the lee of the many islands that dotted this briny estuary. It was night and the stars were faint against the rising steam of dusk that the forest beyond exhaled. Gideon Klimm stood on the deck besooted, his limbs lined by the strident light streaming from the gas lamp. He fluidly walked to the lamp, and then awkwardly examined the life congregating ‘round the lamp, then strode back to the binnacle. Flamingos, a dirty business, a perversity of trade, an anachronism from a bygone age. Tomorrow they would go up the river. Brian would be waiting, that is, if he hadn’t subsumed to his monomania.

In the kitchen below deck, ‘Pretty’ Olle was putting the finishing touches on the tuna soufflé that was to be the entree for the evening. Olle was pretty nervous, execution of his recipes was wearing thin, like his coulis.

In the hold, the party was starting up, the tinsel and the lights were on, the punch was ready. Imelda Macgillicuddy was getting all her favourite songs played right now, before the hoi polloi came in with their dreadful requests. In the dim mini-disco ball light she weaved and did that side step, snapping her fingers. Olle came in, slinking in the shadows, bearing the amuse-bouches that would be the solace of Macgillicuddy when the evening turned proletarian. She saw him out of the corner of her eye, Olle could tell with his practised eye that by the way that she moved that she was ignoring him. He traipsed to the tables that lined the hold, set the plates down. Olle looked up to the dj, to the turn tables, to the mini-disco ball. His hand went out to the cooler of beer, and pulled out at bottle. The fish dying in that cooler the other day wrapped their dying revenge around that bottle, clinging to the glue that held the labels to hard glass. Indifferent, he flicked off the cap with empty plastic lighter, marked by the teeth from many different crowns. He looked at Macgillicuddy, his arm stiff, the elbow out, pulling the bottle from his face, the left leg easy across the stiff right, the edge of the table supporting the back. He looked at and thought Christ this woman.

Olle set the bottle rocket on a trajectory to his face again, the HMS Cooking Lager righted itself to avoid jettisoning its payload, Olle wangled over the dance floor and shouted above 80s Norwegian pop hits

‘You wanna play a drinking game? It’ssa lot of fun, and he turned to see that hold had filled with dancing mates and scientists, he pulled Imelda to a table were the kitchen staff were sitting, their black-white check trousers under a red check table cloth.

‘Tell the lie, it’s called.’ He said over his shoulder as he inched his chair over tothe tabel

The evening blurred into the grey morning.

All that was left of the night was the slowing falling snow against the decklight. The money and the beer.

The grey morning was enveloped in mist, and the snow caught everyone by surprise. Gideon switched on the motor, and the ship nudged itself into the flurry. Wafts of fitful steam came from the galley, and carried the whiff of breakfast, a mix of eggs and smoked mackerel. The tramp steamer looked for the river.

—Easy as getting into a fight with the missus.—thought Gideon Klimm

Still fallow, the shades were recuperating when three wolves charged across the salty slate plain; the heralds of the day job.

...the most popoular villa name by far is 'Nicely Situated'.

and I think I'm not alone in this, or is the sign at the orchard end of Animals a....clue? Does the owner's name start with the second letter of the Alphabet in its traditional order?

...people only have the one lock on the bicycles, to a man and to a cycle. I checked.

And there is one particular neighbour (who lives at the green end of Animals, amid damp grass and the ruins of past industry) whose villa no one has ever seen, for he wards off all potential snoops, voyeurs and correspondents (even h.n.?) with a terrifying sign blazoned across a daunting wooden fence.

In the small village of Animals there are several villas with a view of the river Icing, dedicated with inscriptions. They have such names as 'Well-adjusted', 'Pretty Face', and 'Keep Gate Free', and others that are more pedestrian, such as 'the family Miller'.

As Hoehleaffen maniacally sketched out his ideas (for he had been rendered speechless by the Shades’ – pardon me, Hoehleaffens’ - unprotesting devotion), the Hoehleaffen collected their thoughts, as the dying strains of Silver Fox rang in their ears, amplified by the cavernous acoustics they had just left behind. What they had SEEN down there had not surprised them, just the usual prehistoric cave drawings juxtaposed with more recent artistic exploits they had come to expect from earlier forays into the earth…

The Hand of the Master? Picture by Daan Isendoorn

But despite all this, the Hoehleaffen were overwhelmed not visually, but olfactorily, as an indescribable smell – the smell of decay in recesses or progress in clearings? - brought tears to their eyes. A stable after all then, of an artist on the run, riding the winds, clutching his nefarious pictures under his armpits, en route to a new studio.

¡Mira companeros! exclaimed Hoehleaffen, and with a flourish lifted his pyjama / cassock over his head and spread it over the table. The Hoehleaffen gazed and were amazed… this bordered on sheer lunacy, or did it?

....the canvas opens. The droning sound of the engines slowly vanishes as I'm shrouded in increasing darkness. The wind whizzes past, cut by my new umbellical cords. Without them life is short.
I realise up is the past, some fading lights in the increasing distance. Every cold breath more out of reach. Not that it was much of a home...more a steel tube, light in red and green. Uncomfortable...but it started out well...somewhere in a field. Aluminium aloy heated in a late summer's sun and a sky full of promise, life and challenge. How we marvelled at the sight before entering. Our metallic bird larger than life, invincible, our own epic saga and we'd only written our first line.
But that's in the past now....we took our stories on board and kicked them out, somewhere halfway through the first chapter. And there they are, floating left and right in silence...in crimson darkness. Going down.
I look down but all I see are my boots. I expected a light, a vague shimmer of earth, something terrestrial to ground me, a target, a landing zone, meaning....But I guess not. I wonder again why I jumped, we jumped...what intention we had...what mission, but I can't remember. I know others jumped too, left and right, soaring down from our big armada, but sofar no trees, no fields, no nervewrecking but exhilarating kick in the heels.
I wonder how long I've been afloat. It started out as seconds, an adrenaline rush, but I guess it must be days, ...or longer. There is no difference when I shut my eyes. I wonder if it matters, if not landing would change anything. No one is expecting us...not anymore. Quite frankly, what on earth is the use.
So....acceptance. I've given in to this...I rest at the absence of a past and I scorn the absence of a future. Part of me even relishes in this feeling with its undertones of freedom, so....Don't pity me...for I have accepted my liminal state...
...just don't think I do not have a story to tell.