Dear diary...It's good to dream of distant memories that brought so much happiness.
I remember those young years in my thirties, me in my hippy skirt and vest top, or jeans and flirty off the shoulder gypsy blouse. My partner with his long blonde beard and ponytail, going to our local smoke filled pub on a Sunday afternoon.
The Beehive was the place to be, humming with the fusion sounds of philosophy about life. Over many pints groups gathered, eavesdropping on conversations, eager to get involved and put out their point of view, discussions were never forced, just came naturally as we set the world to right.
When 2pm came around live music we'd consume with feelings of eagerness, like we were part of a far out scene, where anyone could get up and jam, with instrument, voice or song.
I'd go crazy for a local band, The Worried Men, drifting on their skillful Blues, with closed eyes and smoky, hazy minds catching the ambiance, taking me to another dimension. Then as music got louder another drifter would amble in carried on a breeze of curiosity.
A tribute Doors band played there one Sunday afternoon, they massaged my mind as I got swept along on hypnotic, haunting blends. Sweeping long hair across my face and whipping it around like some wild banshee, until it became a shadowy curtain of obscurity.
It was like entering a different world, going back in time, imagining the singer was the real Jim Morrison...he certainly sounded like him and wore the leather hipster, tight fitting trousers, then there was that sometimes mellow, but on occasions shrieking voice as he got lost in his poetry. Falling to his knees during the Unknown Soldier, that all emotional moment when the gun is fired. The whole pub went quiet for just a moment, before the singer slowly snaked his way to standing, hands clutching the microphone like it was a precious flower of remembrance, how that one gesture captured a force of energy that left his audience momentarily lost for words.
Now distance has given rise to that memory that I so fondly capture in words, that I probably will never get back again. How privileged I feel to have been a part of that time, those captured passions both enthralling and important to me in so many ways.