Dandelions and daises, dingle dell. I am a child again. When I was a child I used to ride in the rear, nearside passenger seat of my father’s nineteen sixty four Ford Zephyr Zodiac. Powdery green colour, neat angle to its wings. No seat belts used in those days and I used to rest my head against the window, ever so slightly cool on a summer evening’s drive.
We would often motor down to the south coast and back on narrow country roads, next to rich green hedgerows, through deep green tunnels of overhanging trees. Cool tunnels of darkness in clear summer evening light. I would watch myself outside the car, over there, running, floating at speed down the barely visible bridleways and in and out of the trees, always keeping up with the car, smiling and waving back at me from out there, flying my Airfix air force, commanding my Airfix army. I could never watch me from outside the car though.
Until now.
Now I can. Dingle dell. The car is just as ghostly as I was when I was running through the green woods, dingle dell, in nineteen sixty seven as commander of a squadron of Centurion tanks, cheeks ballooned out, engine sounds spluttering from my lips.
I can see me inside. I am the passenger in the back seat, face pressed against the glass. I am the four headlights. I am the sparkle off the chrome and I am the chrome. I am pistons pumping out their beat, the lead in the petrol and the exhaust melting into the sweet summer evening air. I am the smell of petrol burnt in nineteen sixty seven vintage engines. I am the damp smell of summer evening rain. I am a raindrop on the windscreen wiped too quickly aside, but I am good at being raindrops. I am the rain. I was there. I saw it. I see it.
I am the smell and colour of dad’s pint of Red Barrel. I am the dimpled glass hugging the beer. I am the little boy on the swing in the country pub garden. The Ship Inn. I am the pirate. I am the grass under my Tuff shoes. I am the to and fro motion. I am the little girl in plaits wearing a white flower pattern cotton dress, waiting for her turn to swing. I am her eyes, I am her spiteful stare at me and I see what she sees, I see what she thinks. I see what she means.
I see seesaw. I see it all. Out of the body inside the mind and it is more real now than it has ever been, and every time I journey it is more real inside here than ever, although it is never ever exactly the same, time and time again, crossing the ocean, golden sails glowing in the sunset.
Dad is dead now. So is his Ford Zephyr Zodiac. I often wear my father’s face like a mask. I move into my father’s face, I become my father’s face and, for an instant, see things from his point of view. Literally.
The thought often occurs to me that he might be telling me lies or that I might be lying to myself, crossing the ocean, golden sails glowing in a sepia sunset.
Fire and Brimstone. I am an adult. In the south, sandstorms, but I was the raindrop falling to the desert sand. We were two raindrops, Sahar. I was there, I saw it. I did it. I fell. I fell in love, Sahar, with you and you with me.
In the south you dare not open your mouth.
In the north, floods and I was a raindrop falling, wrapped around desert dust. I was there, I saw it. Sahar, Dawn, dawn, I had flown with her, floating over the dusty land, hand in hand with the desert sand. I was her tear, but I felt no fear.
I was there, I saw it, I had it canned even if they had it banned. I was there, I did it. I had consummated the lust and I felt no fear because I felt her trust.
They took Sahar away from me. They took her away. For ever.
I was our tender kiss but, then, the hydraulic hiss. I was a throbbing symphony, I was the wear and tear. I was the crack, the number one, I was the screaming track. I was a gear change like clockwork, the exhaust drifting blue black in the air.
I was the armoured steel, never, never ever to turn on my heel. I was the tank. I was the wear and tear. One hundred and twenty millimetres, I was the gun man, looking for fun. One hundred and twenty millimetres, I was the shell man, their trip to hell, fire and brimstone.
Sahar is dead now. When I remember someone who has died, more often than not I first see their face. From one side, from the other, face to face, from a little higher up, a little lower down, a myriad of angles. Once however, I wore Sahar’s face like a mask. I moved into Sahar’s face, I became Sahar’s face and, for an instant, saw things from her point of view. Literally.
Now I do it over and over.
The thought often occurs to me that she might be telling me lies or that I might be lying to myself more like it, crossing the ocean, golden sails glowing in the sunset.
Waves, on my last breath close my eyelids for me so that the sea has no time to wash away my sins.
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