Whirl-y- Gig days - original prose mix

Whirly-gig's venue would change from month to month, or even week to
week. Under constant threat of being closed down for good,
intrinsically bound to its die-hard crowd of faithful druggies, the
event crawled round London like a drunken and degenerate Victorian
circus.

I was a true disciple. My Master was vinyl .A communion of Ecstasy -
the love drug, that never permitted my cold heart to love. Cora the
resident DJ, was a truly remarkable woman, both to look at and to
listen to. She would layer sound upon sound, until it would reach a
point of such dreamlike beauty, that the crowds' dance would reach a
point of utter frenzy, and the sound system would shake uncontrollably
in synchrony with the lighting which pulsated to a rhythm, as though
both were interlocked in a wild and passionate electronic orgasm.
Cora herself, combined with her music to create a paradox. Barely
moving, she was like a halcyon, clad in silk and metal, the calm in the
centre of the storm.

The music peaked. Vision faded away, until all I saw was nothingness.
Whatever, whoever I once had been had travelled far into trance. Beyond
that, I became a phantom . The usual scenes played that night through
my mind. The sharp sting of realisation as I stared into naked truth.
Joy in music, a beautiful empathy when holding my friends in tight
embrace. Six of us then, only one left now.
It is only when one steps out into a cold winter dawn , after the last
tune has spun and the stroboscopic phantasmagoria closes, that the
sharp pang emptiness cuts in. I pulled my coat around me and leaned
against Christian's warmth. Austin found us a dirty black minicab, and
as we pulled away into the velvet London morning, I fell into a deep
dream.

Such friendship I knew could stand the test of time.

Nothing hurts me any more

Nothing hurts me any more.

Nothing hurts me any more.

These were my daydreams, but my fears had more power. They took shape
as monsters in suits, binding me with burnished steel to a life
immersed in suburban decadence.

Five years later all revulsion from the idea of a dull career had been
swallowed by my slightly uneasy contentment. No longer hell bent on
self destruction, no longer maladjust, I often thought about the wild
times, the whirly-gig days. I sat a a desk by the window overlooking
the atrium, where tropical plants threw tendrils which crept and
writhed towards the sterile floor which yawned and beckoned eight
floors below, and wondered why the feelings of unease and unrest always
surfaced at some point

Leaving Sub-urban Surrey was the most sensible thing I ever did.
Weeping willows, gushing brooks and rushes rushing past and wind. Dew
drenched meadows, all these pathetic symptoms of nature saturated my
childhood, and when I saw the beauty of a sprawling conurbation
coughing diesel grime into the billboard streets, God I fell in love. I
had to leave anyway. If those who had known me as a child had seen my
powers they would have killed me.

What physical process has any meaning-? Not even tears not even anguish
pangs not even death, and I've held all of these, close, hidden in my
heart except death who once showed me her shadowy wings, then turned
and flew away taking my only brother with her.

Oily swirls in a glass and dust in a dirty London bedsit. My new life,
free from the torments of my blood family. Private room and life and
body, mine now, and I unpacked the corner of my mind that I had hidden
so well all my young life, and it blazed. I spent some time trying to
give a name to the bad feeling that troubles me so much. To identify
what "it" was, must require to think about what "it" did "IT" hurts (so
much, so deep) so I guess it must be pain. What really frightens is it
doesn't seem to be tied to anything. Cause and causality blurred,
assuming no form or being.

I wrenched myself into a thin winter sun, slippy in the suburban
banality. What could be more ghastly than condemnation to a life of
mediocrity? Pain? Walking wounded into another hour of fear although
even an antibody to terror is generated from the marrow of my soul and
we no longer fear sleep, even if the demons come to play.

So clutch, my soul, my will, my strength, to the life you ought to
have, to the person you should be, to the wisdom you admire and seek.
Until like in a darkened room of technocratic strangers you see as if
for the first time another human being and turn the palms of your hands
upwards so they speak to you and the real you who laughs and sees and
loves and weeps soaks up their words and speaks to them also.

One day someone put a sabre through my diaphragm by asking me how I
was, and I turned a full turn, twisting my hidden bruises away until
the only thing left was a empty shell. I had to write about it all to
make me real, to know that I really existed and the form that my
existence adopted are these sheets of paper.