The End Is Nigh...

Maybe a little melodramatic perhaps... I could have easily titled this entry 'The End Is In Sight' or something similarly benign. But hey, I'm sticking with melodrama, dammit!

So yes, 2012 is gradually creeping out to make way for the new year. I can't say I'll be sorry to see it go either, as it has turned out to be quite a challenging year in many respects. It didn't exactly start well with the prospect of clearing out the family home following the death of Dad in late 2011, a stressful activity not to mention emotionally draining. And then of course there was the selling of the property, all virgin territory for me being in the hands of estate agents and solicitors. It didn't help being so far way from the house either. But mercifully it sold relatively quickly, the monies dispersed (a very sad day) and business concluded.

But the experience affected me emotionally, more than I realised, and rendered me somewhat needy, as if my life suddenly had no meaning. It led to a difficult period in the latter half of the year when I got too attached to a certain someone which led to complications. I had to extricate myself from the situation but felt bad for just abandoning the other person without explanation. I still think of and miss him.

But the year also proved good in so many other respects: getting involved with Cardiff Players, completing the Photography Beginners course run by ffotogallery, organising and editing the IPO/ONS booklet Winter Bizarre Vol. 2., camping at Out In The Open, attending the Edinburgh Fringe for the first time since 2009. Oh and lets not forget being inadvertently cast as a disaster prone elf for the works pantomime.

I've also seen some great live performances this year, from the brilliantly funny Fascinating Aida to the stunning light and sound spectacle of Muse performing at the LG Arena. Seen some pretty good films at the pics this year too - Avengers Assemble, Sightseers, Skyfall, Holy Motors, Shame, Looper, Ted, Chronicle, The Artist, Hunky Dory to name a few. Inevitably some dire stuff there too; The Raven, The Darkest Hour, Mirror Mirror, Total Recall were all pretty bad, but none so as much as Elfie Hopkins, a film so inept it has to be seen to be disbelieved.

I've met some fantastic people during the last twelve months too: the cast and crew of Cardiff Players, the other students on the photography course, and online friends from Wales, Northern Ireland, the US and even New Zealand. They have all helped me get through the tough times - and I would like to thank them so much for this!

I was gearing up for a tough time over Christmas this year, being the first one ever not going back to the family home in Abingdon. And although it was sad, it was passed pleasantly with Stu's family in Brynmenyn and Nant-y-moel. (I also got to spend time with my own family when we gathered at my sister's place in Radstock a week before, which was lovely.) So, all told, it was nowhere near as emotionally traumatic as I was expecting it to be.

But that's all over now - and it's time to look forward. 2012 is done and dusted, so I would like to wish my readers a very happy new year - may it prove peaceful and fruitful for all.

Lx. 31/12/12

Laugh! Or the elf gets it...

And so, following on from my previous post, I am no longer a 'stage virgin'. Let's just clarify that -  my 'acting' debut as Stunt Elf in The Stats and Pats Players production 'Santa Gets The Sack' has finally come and gone... and although rather battered (less physically, more in terms of dignity), I have to say I did enjoy the experience*.  But then it was a relatively easy role - no lines to remember, just the ability to fall over, look terrified and/or shell-shocked and grunt in the right places. Which seemed to please the audience, made up of IPO/ONS staff (performance 1), under 10s (performance 2) and pensioners (last performance). In fact the whole production was very well received (and I should hope so, the amount of time we put into it!) and already requests are being made as to what is being put on next year. Let's just say that we have an original idea brewing...

Here are the pics. The ones I dared to put up anyway.

*although I have fallen from grace with the Cardiff Players techies but breaking the rule 'techies don't go on stage'. I'm now labelled as the 'Traitorous Techie'.

...oh no he isn't...

Having managed avoid the phenomenon of pantomime for the majority of my adult life, I suddenly find myself involved with not one but two of them. Ah life, who knows what it is going to throw at you!

To clarify firstly, I don't actually dislike panto - I know it can be big camp fun and everything - it just never really appealed to me enough to want to watch it, associating it more as entertainment for kids (which it primarily is of course). And the idea of Christopher Biggins in a dress brings me out in hives.

Anyway, here's how it all happened...

After the success of Glorious! Cardiff Players (who have now well and truly got their hooks into me) announced that their next production would be the annual pantomime which this year is Robin Hood, written by Geoff Lake of the Players. Initially scheduled for early December, the production has had to be put back until late January due to venue problems.

And just as well...

As before, I will be involved primarily as videographer and projectionist, and I therefore asked what visual apparitions I would need to conjure up for this production. I was told. And when I came round again...

Glorious! was a big challenge technically, but I think this production is going to ten times more so. There are certain video sequences that I still have no idea how to tackle. However, as with the previous Players presentation, I always cherish a challenge and it will be fun being creative to find solutions. But I think an investment in some advanced video software will be called for... much as I like iMovie there's only so much it can do!

We already have one sequence 'in the can'; it involved a cold but bright Saturday morning a couple of weeks back where cast members in costume had to emerge from bushes in Heath Woods. (Don't ask.) It was a fun couple of hours shooting it though (a lot of laughs!) and I think the edit for it looks pretty good. One down...

And the other?

Members of the ONS/IPO Creative Writing group were approached earlier in the year to pen a pantomime to be performed at ONS in late November (two performances, one for staff and the other for under 10s) and December (an extra performance for OAPs). The mighty Mr Stephen Lurvey stepped forward to create a completely original panto premise titled 'Santa Gets The Sack', involving the titular Christmas character, his arch-nemesis the wizard GoneDaft and malfunctioning robots...

Having rather been bitten by the theatrical bug by this time, I offered to help with staging and to provide sound effects for the shows. (Note to self: get sound effects for the shows...).

And the next thing I know...  I have a part in it. (And this is after taking the solemn oath that 'techies never go on stage'. I should be ashamed.) How did that happen??

Given that Santa's helper elf 'Andy' has to undergo some rather alarming physical abuse at the mechanical hands of the malfunctioning robot, it became apparent that the person playing said elf could not perform all the stunts herself due to health problems. The result? Why of course... a 'stunt elf' was written in! And to play him? Well, I think I you know where this is heading...

To be honest, I'm quite looking forward to playing the part, as it involves minimal dialogue and the ability to look alarmed, grunt and roll around on the floor a lot. I think I can handle that. The rehearsals for stunt elf scenes has left me with carpet burns, but - oh, stop it!!

So the next few weeks I will be like a thing possessed - or more like a demented, punch drunk elf staggering around with a video camera and a laptop, tapping along while sketching out ideas for a his next written piece.

Dull life, eh...

Eulogy: John Bruce Norman Eggleton

A year ago today our Dad passed on. I feel I should mark the occasion by publishing the eulogy I read at his funeral.

***

We are all here today to celebrate the life of a man. But let us not be mistaken. This was no ordinary man. This was, in fact, an extraordinary man; a brother, a husband, a father and a grandfather, and… well let’s face it… one remarkable person.

For many people Dad was a kind, gentle and infinitely generous soul, always ready to put others before himself and more than willing to help out wherever he could. These are very true and accurate sentiments indeed.

However, now that we are here reflecting on his life, I would invite you all to consider the extent of this man’s particular personality and talents.

He was not only a family man totally dedicated to his wife and children; he was also an amazingly talented, artistic and creative individual, whose enthusiasm for life and art invigorated and inspired those around him.

Dad and Mum managed to raised six of us children… six!... in a time of austerity. Yet all of us were cared for and none of us ever went wanting. However it must be noted that the increasing number of children in the family seemed to correlate directly with the decreasing number of hairs on Dad’s head. By the time Marcia arrived the poor man was practically bald. I do hope it was some hereditary trait that caused this and not the stress of bringing up six adorable but very individual children.

It must be said though that he loved all his children equally and nurtured within them the love and passion for life that has inspired them to become the people they are today.

And while we’re on the subject of passion, let us take a moment to reflect on Dad’s own passions.

His love of classical music, for example. How could we forget waking on weekends to the rousing strains of Tchaikovsky’s 4^th Symphony, Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite, Chopin’s Etudes? I like to think he instilled within his children a musical appreciation that we have carried forward in our own lives.

Dad’s wonderful artistic talent even went as far as cake decorating. His festive,  culinary embellishments were monumental and sculptural masterworks of icing, marzipan and food-colouring. It felt almost criminal to cut into them.

Dad also loved tennis and would be seen regularly on the courts at his workplace in Harwell. He enjoyed not only playing but also watching the sport too – there would always be that fortnight during the summer when we would all have to fend for ourselves as Dad sat, unmovable and enthralled in front of the television - Wimbledon!

Personally, I will never forget Dad’s ingenious inventiveness. In particular, one Christmas when the electric whisk failed and he improvised by using a power drill, with the whisk head attached to it, to whip the trifle cream. And the result was a success – albeit a rather messy one, for some.

Throughout his life, Dad loved to travel; motor biking to Rome over the alps and cycling to Paris in his youth. Not even a growing family could diminish his sense of adventure, though perhaps necessity put it on a more modest scale. I remember holidays in such far flung places as the Isle of Wight (in a simple flat), Wales (in a caravan), sailing trips, if you could call it sailing, on the Thames. One time we even went as far as (gasp!) Inverness.

Even in his advanced years Dad’s wanderlust could not be quenched. Mountaineering in Scotland, partying in Vegas, cruising round Canada. Only last month he was living it up in Barcelona – an international jet-setter right to the end.

As you can see, Dad was a man who was unafraid to live life to the full. That is exactly what he did and in doing so he inspired his children and his grandchildren to do the same. For this and so much more we are grateful to him; a brother, a husband, a father, a grandfather and, as I’ve mentioned before, an extraordinary man.

I’d like to add just one thing more – time to rest now, Dad; you’ve earned it.

 ***

John Bruce Norman Eggleton

1928 - 2011



Midlands Madness

I haven't posted on here for, oooh, quite a while... and to be honest I haven't had the impetus to do so. But things  have getting progressively better since the rather strange blip I had in late August and September. And events have reached somewhat mental proportions over the last seven days...

Last Tuesday, my friend Kev and I headed up from South Wales to the LG Arena in Birmingham to see the god-heads of spaced-out rock Muse, on tour after the release of the rather wonderful The 2nd Law. They were supported by the superb Welsh rock outfit The Joy Formidable, whose epic songs got the audience fired up for the main act. And after a rather lengthy wait (and the arena got packed to the seams), the deceptively simple set was suddenly shrouded in darkness... And then the opening of 'The 2nd Law: Unsustainable' blitzed into life accompanied by blazing shafts of red light shooting across the arena. From that moment on, the whole stage exploded into life; the black panels at the back of the stage were suddenly revealed to be LED video screens and descending from the lighting rack at key moments were tiers of yet more video screens which were raised and lowered through a number of configurations throughout the performance. At one point they were even lowered right down onto the stage to form a pyramid over the boys (for a break, presumably) and played out a visual accompaniment to the gorgeous album closer 'Isolated System'.

True to form, the band were as mind-blowing in their staging as ever - equally as amazing as when I saw them at Wembley in 2007 - and performed a whole range of their stuff, from 'Sunburn' to 'Survival', the rousing number which closed the proceedings. At which point the already hyped up crowd went completely bonkers. And, as far as their music goes, these guys are equally as good live as their recorded work - not something you can say about every band.

Next, and closer to Birmingham (well bang in the centre of it actually), I attended PCS's annual LGBT Seminar, this year held at Jury's Inn on Broad Street. Having attended the previous seminar in my home town of Cardiff I was keen to go again, as I had found the mixture of debates and speakers most inspirational, moving and rewarding. This year's gathering was equally as good, with the focus being more on organising and campaigning - highly pertinent too, given the government's relentless and myopic 'austerity' cuts to public services and public sector workers' pay, pensions and terms & conditions. ("All in this together" Mssrs. Cameron and Clegg? I don't think so.) The class of speakers, including Hugh Lanning and Janice Godrich from PCS, were as superb as before. However, it was the truly amazing Zimbabwean born Skye Chirape who captured the minds and hearts of the audience with her talk about experiences of prejudice against her being African and lesbian. Her fight against the most appalling treatment by the  authorities was shocking yet ultimately inspirational as she has risen above her struggle to be the successful (and proud!) person she is now. Her talk really put things into perspective for me and made me realise that my life, however much I may bemoan it at times, has actually been a luxury in comparison.

Here is a link to Noizy Image, of which Skye is co-founder.

And of course, on events such as these, we work hard and then party hard!! (Well I did at least). So, with boots and combats in place, my room-mate and now very good friend Michael hit the pubs of Lower Essex Street and its surroundings with all the force of gay men on a mission to have a good night, including a fair bit of time in Missing, where we danced our feet off and got our pictures taken with mad random women.

(And the less said about Boltz the better...)

Inevitably though, all good things must come to an end - and probably just as well they did last Sunday as my rather intimate acquaintance with a certain Jack Daniels may have proved fatal to my liver. Plus the fact that I haven't been to bed any less than 3 o'clock for the last few nights. Liver failure and sleep deprivation really does leave you in an odd state of mind...

All said though, it was a week that will stay with me and has returned a certain joie de vivre that has been so missing in my life of late. Having said that, I don't think I could do the same again just yet...

Into Glorious Unknown Territory

Ah, Florence Foster Jenkins - glad to make your acquaintance, madam! For the uninitiated, she was an American amateur operatic soprano who was known, and ridiculed, for her lack of rhythm, pitch, tone, aberrant pronunciation of libretti, and overall poor singing ability. (Thanks, Wikipedia). And she is the subject of Peter Quilter’s (he of End of the Rainbow fame) 2005 play ‘Glorious!’, dramatising the tuneless diva’s later years in the 1940s as she engages the jobbing pianist Cosmé McMoon to accompany her  for her compellingly catastrophic chirruping. 

I had never heard of Ms. Jenkins or Quilter’s play (though I loved End of the Rainbow when it came to Cardiff earlier in the year) and was intrigued when I was approached by Cardiff Players to produce some video backgrounds for their production of it. So, borrowing a copy of the play, I read it en-route to my sister’s house in Aldershot... and got some very funny looks when I was helplessly giggling away to myself while reading it in Leigh Delamere services. It was really rather amusing. And from then on I was hooked.

I was over the McMoon to be invited to join the project and asked if I could be of any further assistance - for instance projecting the images on the night, perhaps. Little did I know what this would lead to; before I knew it I found myself painting props, hanging lights and just generally helping out in the pre-production. 'Glorious!' was proving to be one of the Players most ambitious projects in respect of props, furniture, scene and costume changes, as well as incorporating projected video on a custom made screen. Pretty daunting stuff that came with all manner of challenges, including one truly stressful evening when the digital projector decided it didn't want to be involved thank you very much and malfunctioned. This with only a few days to go before opening night. Luckily, a replacement was found very quickly and proved to be a much better projector with a much brighter image that wouldn't be drowned out by the stage lights. See? Things happen for a reason!

The two sequences that I shot with members of the cast and crew were great fun to do and the results were great, thanks to video capabilities of the Canon DSLR. As well as this, I also got the opportunity to research, incorporate and edit existing archive footage of 1940s New York and Carnegie Hall, create a title sequence (see below) in iMovie and become familiar with the capabilities of the Keynote program which proved invaluable, not only for cueing the video slides but also for creating some rather snazzy intertitles and credits (ultimately not used but were fun to create anyway).

Involvement with a theatre group was all virgin territory for me, but I learned a lot about theatre terminology during this time. For example: you know that flat thing that the actors perform on? That’s a ‘stage’!... ooooh...

Joking aside, the experience has been a steep (and very intense) learning curve for me, but one that has proved to be immensely rewarding. I guess I have never been satisfied just being a passive consumer of entertainment and have always secretly craved to be involved in its production somehow. Like a lot of things in my life, the opportunity came about when I was least expecting it. It also introduced me to some wonderfully committed individuals (that’s not individuals who should be committed) who made up the cast and crew of 'Glorious!' They have been so welcoming and encouraging, and really appreciated what I had created for them. And even though I never actually got to see the performed play (too busy backstage, finger poised nervously over the MacBook’s spacebar) it was a genuine pleasure to be involved in this most fabulous of productions.

To quote Cosmé's last line of the play: "Glorious!"


Here is the opening video, to the strains of the great lady herself singing Adele's Laughing Song from Strauss's 'Die Fledermaus'. It's pretty painful.

A Liaison In A Public Lavatory*

Ha! Gotcha. Never underestimate the power of a provocative title. Lets just see if this entry can outstrip the current holder of most viewed of mine so far.

The title is actually relevant (as well as being a being a bit of a troll for attention!) as it concerns the theme of a video project that I proposed to undertake when I first started study at the Newport College of Art and Design - as it was known back then.

Rewind... 1995.

Relocating from from Hull to Newport in South Wales, I was all fired up to connect with like-minded students who wanted to create new forms of storytelling in film, push boundaries, generate excitement, stimulate ideas, all that stuff. I was horrified on arrival to find that the majority of the students were 10 years younger than me (I was an old man of 28 at the time) and were all little Tarantino-wannabies (this was when Pulp Fiction was still fresh in their non-expandable little minds).

I was, however, resolutely undeterred and and determined to make a go of this opportunity to expand my limited knowledge of film-making. The first group project we were set was a short video, any theme or genre, with just the title given: 'Intrusion'.

The idea that formulated in my mind was perhaps a little racy for the innocent youngsters around me, but I thought fuck it - what's the point of being here if I can't produce challenging material? The scenario was simple and summarised thus:

A public lavatory. Five men stand at the urinal. The camera focuses on the man on the far left. The presence of the others makes him nervous and he has trouble urinating. He glances behind at the cubicles; they are all engaged. A voice-over expresses his anxiety. One by one, the three men in the middle leave after finishing, but the man on the far right stays. The man on the left looks behind again; the cubicles are still engaged. He begins to notice that the man on the right is taking his time there. They both glance at each other. The man on the left looks away instantly, embarrassed. The voice-over speaks of his growing anxiety but also hints at an implicit interest. The other man continues to look but remains silent. The man on the left’s anxiety grows more intense; the sound of a tap dripping constantly in the background grows louder and more rhythmic, signifying his discomfort but also his uncomfortable excitement in the situation. Just as it looks as if one of them is about to make a move, there is a sound of a lock being released from behind – a cubicle has been vacated. The man on the left glances behind at it, indecisive. Fade.

(I hasten to add this scenario wasn't extracted from experience. Honest, guv.)

I ran the idea past the tutor who thought it would make a good, atmospheric piece that explored the given theme in a fresh way.  Added to this Clarence Place, the large technical institute building that then housed NCAD had the most wonderful toilets with proper Victorian urinals, tiles, the works. It would have been perfect; filming could take place right there in the college without the need to take equipment out on location. Everything was there just waiting to happen.

Except...

The two guys that I was assigned to work with were clearly uncomfortable with the whole idea. To be fair to them, they were just out of school (heads filled with Tarantino) and had probably never heard of cottaging or had a clue that that kind of thing went on. Well, at least not without a lot of gunfire, swearing, bubblegum pop and someone's ear being sliced off.

So, for the comfort of these dear youngsters, the idea was dropped. Instead we used one of theirs,  about a woman seeking refuge in a church from her abusive spouse, who turns up to coerce her into coming back home. A potentially good idea, with some interesting themes that could have been explored. Except not the way did it. They spent a lot of time titting about in the church we were supposed to be filming in and dragging their feet in the edit suite, so I let them get on with it. It would have looked shit anyway.

Like all my ideas though, this one has not been discarded and currently resides in my ever expanding folder 'LIST OF PROJECTS, REAL, IMAGINARY, PROPOSED AND SOME THAT WILL NEVER EVER SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY' on the Mac.

And who knows? It may yet be made. Clarence Place still stands, the luxury apartment plans on hold as far as I can tell. Here's hoping those wonderful toilets still survive.

Diolch i chi am ddarllen!



*I was actually going to title this entry "Sex In Toilets', but I don't think Blogger would have been too happy with that...

Fringe Benefits - symbolists, rent boys, polyester and Miriam Margolyes

Ah Edinburgh! Wonderfully hilly capital of Scotland and seat of the Scottish parliament, and host to the annual cultural madness that is the Edinburgh Fringe. After a two year absence from this place of diversity and kilts*, a visit was much needed, if only to see how far they have got with the tram network.

You know you're not in Cardiff anymore, Toto, when you're wandering down Rose Street and you get serenaded by two girls singing the Flower Duet from Lakmé... perfectly. 

Not having attended for said two years, the festival seemed just that bit bigger and madder than usual. Trying to get down The Royal Mile without being accosted by some weirdly attired youngsters thrusting glossy leaflets into your hands about their latest production - "two for one offer!!" - is a exercise in futility... however, worth it though as you get to see some great street theatre and musical acts. Holy Moly and the Crackers and the wonderfully energetic The Perch Creek Family Jugband were two such acts... and the guitar player from the Jugband was tap-dancing... fabulous!!

And the highlights from this woefully short sojourn included: being entertained by the camp prince of polyester Bob Downe at the Gilded Balloon, having an intimate encounter with the wonderful Lucy Porter at the Stand Comedy Club, perusing the symbolist landscapes 'From Van Gogh to Kandinsky' at the National Museum of Scotland, being wowed by the electrifyingly heartbreaking dance piece 'A Beautiful Hell' by Edge FWD, luvvied up by the splendidly bonkers Miriam Margolyes with her delve into the world of Dickens' Women and the latest from the excellent Out Cast Theatre group, 'Mr Braithwaite Has A New Boy' with its tale of adoption, rent boys and narcoleptic neighbours. Oh and not forgetting the perennial favourite 'Shakespeare For Breakfast', 10 o'clock at C Venue with a croissant - this year subtitled 'The Only Way Is Little Venice'. Good job I ate the croissant first otherwise I would have choked on it, I was laughing that much.

Bracketing this much needed visit over the border was a stay in the wonderful Hedges guest house just off Leith Walk. It was the perfect accommodation - clean, great facilities, an impressive range of breakfasts and within walking distance of Princes Street... and hosted by the most fabulous Heather - a woman so warm she is sad to see you go and gives you huge hugs before you leave. I didn't want to.

The tram network still isn't finished by the way. 

Here's the pics.

*I came back with one. Kilt that is.

The Facebook Folly or How I Posted my Passing and Lived To Regret It

Three simple words. That's all it took. Not the best chosen in retrospect and posted in circumstances that were neither rather rational nor sober. Typed in, logged out, power off, sleep.

Farewell cruel world.

That's what I typed into the 'what's on your mind' box of my Facebook page and hit enter. I wasn't prepared for the consternation this rather melodramatic but (to me anyway) benign way of signing off for the evening would cause, however. The next day, while I was struggling to overcome the inevitable hangover at work, I was met by all manner of messages on Facebook asking if I was ok and if I was still alive. Seriously?? While touched by the messages I thought it odd that people had taken the post to be a potential suicide note. If it had read 'I can't take this anymore' or 'I can't go on' then that I could understand. But 'Farewell cruel world'? A provocative statement, yes. But a little too dramatic to indicate anything more than to elicit a response... oh ok I admit it - I was subconsciously trolling!

Trying to look at it from my friends' perspective, I can understand their concern. It also made me think about how, in this age of increasingly electronic and abbreviated communication, words can be misunderstood, misconstrued, taken out of context and the like. A throwaway comment from one person could be taken to meaning something else totally by the receiver, especially if it was meant to be delivered with an ironic slant. Without the intonation of voice to get the context of the message across, the words are just open to all manner of interpretation, depending on the person or even just the mood they are in.

I'm terrible for that - a post could come through and even if there is a hint of ambiguity about it, the question "what do they mean by that??" will be rattling round my head, seeking a resolution. And being the insecure person I am, I seem to automatically assign a negative aspect to it. It's a hard habit to break, but I'm getting there... I like to think.

I just hope that electronic communication doesn't replace verbal communication - while it is a convenient and expeditious way of keeping in touch, it comes with some serious drawbacks if misused... I'm envisioning World War III scenarios here.

As for me, I think I need to keep away from social networking sites when I've had a skinful. It's gotten me into so much trouble in the past and I've had to issue so many grovelly apologies to all and sundry the following day. Either that or get someone to gaffer tape oven gloves to my hands when I have that glazed look in my eyes.

Whatever works.

ps. Farewell cruel world!!

Playtime/In Memorium

Two recently completed artworks. Both use materials salvaged from the clearance of my parents home earlier in the year.

'Playtime' (acrylic, counters and dice on canvas) used some counters I found wrapped in cellophane with the dice - I have no idea what game they were for but rather than chuck them I felt I could use them otherwise;


'In Memorium' (acrylic and buttons on canvas) - I took my mother's old tin of buttons that she had been accumulated throughout the years. Being of the post-war austerity era, she knew never to throw anything away as it may be of use later; it's a view that has passed down to me. There were literally hundreds of buttons there, but I selected the ones that would be best shown on a red canvas, for more impact.

Both are rather formally arranged - a penchant I have for rhythm, but also probably exposes my subconscious anally-retentiveness!

Playtime

In Memorium

An easy life?

I was talking to Dad around this time last year and he remarked upon what an easy life he had had; in terms of finding a good job for life, marrying and settling down and raising a family (albeit a rather large one) in a house provided for by the AERE. And the fact that, after mum died in 2009, how he continued to have a good life, what with the frequent family visits, some wonderful neighbours who couldn't have been more attentive to him and even getting some quality holidays in with the help of Marcia and myself (and his debit card!). In retrospect it feels like he knew the end was near and was taking stock, a bit like mum did before she died (see my previous blog entry). And even in death he had it easy - losing consciousness through a catastrophic stroke, he never felt a thing.

The reason I was dwelling on this was that I was thinking about my own life, what had been and where it was going (all good mid-life crisis stuff! Sigh). Although Dad had the struggle of bringing up six wilfully disparate children on a budget, he at least did have the good old heterosexual model template laid out for him. For me, while I came to terms with my sexuality early in life - and to be honest it was never an issue for me - there were still the external problems that I would have to tackle. I knew that at some point I would have to leave the safe confines of my bedroom (reluctantly!) and venture out into the real world if I was to live any kind of proper life. That meant coming out to my parents (scary), going out to gay places (scarier) - all obstacles that I knew I had to face but was incredibly daunting to my introverted self.

(I should note here that I was listening to Bronski Beat's Smalltown Boy when I was 16 and it was the lines "the answers you seek will never be found at home/the love that you need will never be found at home" that struck a depressingly terrifying chord with me. It took me another five years before I actually did anything about it.)

Even though it took me a while, confronting these challenges were ultimately worth it. Coming out to mother was difficult as her views on homosexuality at the time were influenced by the twin evils of The Sun and The Daily Mail. But through me being out she came to realise these views were wrong and became the most supportive and pro-gay mother going, even helping me through my first break-up trauma. (Eternally grateful to you for that, Mum). Venturing out into the gay scene (with the collective help of the Oxford Young Friend organisation) was a revelation and I felt like I had stepped through the looking glass into a new world.

From there my life exploded into new territory; out of control, exhilarating, heartbreaking... it was sheer madness for about a year and I felt like I was losing control of my identity, changing into some wild, wilful creature. My parents despaired - their little boy for so long was suddenly out on drunken binges, staying out all night without calling and indulging in god-knows-what. It was like cramming all the typical teenage stuff into one bonkers year.

But I tired of the scene very quickly and that was when Barry came along and I settled into my first long term relationship. Mum and Dad breathed a sigh of relief.

To return to the point of this entry however, I guess that Dad's phrase 'an easy life' is relative; while I had to face challenges that he never even had to entertain, I feel lucky that being gay has never been an issue for me. (Heck, I have more problems with the other things in life, like my general lack of direction and chronic disorganisation of my time!). Sure, I've had my share of homophobic abuse hurled at me by maladjusted trogs and probably will again, but it has never stopped me from declaring my true colours and through that I find that I am almost universally accepted for who I am.

Through being honest to myself, I have not adhered to the life model that Dad could easily slip into; but that itself has opened up wide scope for experiences and opportunities for living a different kind of life - challenging, exciting, scary stuff but there to be embraced.

All part of life's rich tupperware, as Julian Clary once said.

The Girl Who Liked

Just completed this poem. Enjoy.

THE GIRL WHO LIKED

Polly’s Pater perspired profusely,

And Mother her hands did wring,

Oh! Her parents despaired as their daughter declared

Her love for all natural things.

“Not for me, rampant industry!”

Polly trilled as she gazed distant hills.

“Not chimneys high, spilling forth to the sky

Foul outcome from the pounding of mills”.

“Those grunting heads, shining metallic spit

Shafts and cams in lifeless repetition,

Grinding motions relentless, boring into the bit”,

She expressed, striding into her mission.

“Putrid spills and stains! Ah, they do repel

When aggressively spewed from containers

By superior arrogant dominating vessels!”

Sang the wild, impassioned young campaigner.

“But”, she sighed “to run wild in meadows,

And lavish in lush valleys moist

With dew and trickling streams anew

With furtile life!” She voiced.

“So many cracks, crevices to explore

Slippy slopes, buried caverns and caves.

Such excitement aroused by prescient promise!

It is these expeditions I crave”.

“Wild-topped hillocks, where grasses flow pink and wild,

Naked nature, hot-flushed with sensation!

Sacrificing myself to her florid desire!”

Words sparked cold parental consternation.

So, with chains and bars, tight clamps and current

They sought to curtail her abandon

And drive her nature into recesses dark

To conform their young child to convention.

But...

It was far too late

Path led to the gate

Where her form atomised 

Into bright butterflies

And guardians fears

Melted into tears

As offspring will be

Never as one can see.

© 2012  Lance Eggleton

Nine Go Mad at the V&A

Last Monday, eight colleagues from the IPO Designs registry and myself were unshackled from our desks and let out to roam - free and unchaperoned! - in the splendour of the V&A. This was on the proviso that we spend our time at the exhibition entitled 'British Design 1948 - 2012; Innovation in the Modern Age'. (Relevant to our job, see?). So at 8 o'clock we all bundled into the minibus, giggling and fighting over who gets to go on the back seat. Unfortunately, there were no rear windows so we couldn't wave our arses or make obscene gestures to the cars behind. No fun!

I'd been to the exhibition a few weeks back when I was staying over at Marcia and Paul's; they needed the car to go to Download in Donington and I used the opportunity to do all manner of cultural stuff in the capital. I was impressed with the exhibition and, because I wouldn't stop raving about it on return to the office, it was agreed on a works visit to check it out.

Given the limited space for such a huge topic, the exhibition could only really show the most iconic examples of design innovation since the Austerity Olympics in 1948. They ranged from the outlandish (fashion designs by Alexander McQueen) to the practical (the Worboys Committee on traffic road signs) and all that was in-between; architecture, furniture design, interior decorating, vehicles (they had an original mini there!!), album covers, film, fashion, photography, computers and computer games, pop videos, aviation... the breadth of exhibits was impressive. I can't really say there was one area that I was more impressed with over another - it was all good.

And yet the exhibition could only really provide an broadly superficial view of the topic, which left some of our group dissatisfied with it. But then it's eclecticism had to appeal to the public at large, which I guess is the whole point; to engage interest and, for those so inclined, to seek further information. For me, it struck a chord of how important design is to society for a whole slew of reasons - to boost the economy, to establish a national identity, etc - and how it is criminally neglected by the IPO in favour of such other forms of IP as patents and trade marks. All important too, of course (well, I'm not so sure about trade marks...) but design is equally if not more essential - after all, pretty much everything around us, from buildings to furniture to road layouts to the patterns on wallpaper, have been designed.

Still, that's for me to gripe on. Designs have always been a poor relative at the IPO and I don't think that is going to change anytime soon. If I had my way though...

Overall the day out of the office was very rewarding. After the exhibition we took lunch at the somewhat overcrowded (and overpriced!) cafe at the V&A and then spent the rest of the afternoon at the adjacent Natural History Museum where my enthusiastic colleague Rhys whisked me from department to department, not wanting to miss this opportunity to see everything the museum had! Ah, youth.

And then back to Newport. Bev and I took the opportunity to discuss all matters literary on the journey home, which has given me the impetus to start writing again. Bless you, fine lady.

Trying to see if I can swing a week going round art galleries next...

In The City, The Country

I have to shamefully admit that, having previously lived in Oxford for 20-odd years, I never once ventured into any of the 38 or so colleges there. Not that they'd let me in of course (not without wads of cash anyway) but certain ones are open to the public so they, you know, can see how the privileged half study.

You see Oxford, for me, was just the big place up the A34 from Abingdon; the place where the massive Woolworths with the big clock was and with the dodgy Westgate mall with drunks hanging round it all the time. The Woolworth store is now a distant memory (on the site where the Clarendon Centre now resides) and the Westgate has been tidied up considerably since. I don't know where they relocated the drunks to. Abingdon, presumably.

So, my sister Marcia and I decided on a trip to the homeland last weekend, partners in tow. We first nipped to Radley to visit our brother Kevin (and Sue, dad's old lurcher cross - still in good health). Then it was to Oxford, to wander round one of the oldest and best known colleges in the city; Magdalen. 

(In case you're wondering, the pronunciation is 'Maudlin', not the phonetic 'Mag-dal-en' as I was calling it for years. So now you know.)

The college was founded in 1458 by William Waynflete, Bishop of Winchester and Lord Chancellor of England, and currently has about six hundred students under its collective roofs. We didn't get to see many academics - this being a saturday, they were probably all hungover. But we did get to marvel at the beautiful architecture, courtyards, lawns and a glorious chapel with stunning stained glass windows.

And as we were larking about by the New Building (where Betjeman and CS Lewis had rooms, don'tcha know) we saw a sudden dayglo mass heading towards us. Tourists! Eeek! Run away!! Fast!!! So we made a swift escape, past the Deer Park, to the tranquility of Addison's Walk alongside the water meadow. And as the din of accents and camera clicks subsided, we found ourselves out in the countryside. Or at least it felt like it; the boundaries of the college are so large that it is impossible to imagine you are still actually in a city.

The walk took us along the banks of the River Cherwell, where we stopped on a bridge to play pooh sticks. This took a while; the strange, irregular currents of the water took the sticks everywhere but under the bridge. I think mine eventually made it - Stu's on the other hand got caught in an eddy and pirouetted off in another direction entirely.

From there it was back to the main buildings for a peruse of the beautiful chapel and then a wander back down the High Street to The Vaults & Garden Cafe at University Church of St Marys. We'd been to this wonderful little place before, tucked away under the church with white, high-vaulted ceilings, mismatched furniture and a wonderfully eclectic menu. Paul, Stu and I had a rather lovely chickpea and vegetable tagine, Marcia the chicken risotto; all delicious. And we sat, supped tea and chatted like academics (although not on academic subjects, mind!) until it was time to go in our opposite directions - Stu and I to Cardiff, Marcia and Paul London-bound.

So, while I wouldn't want to move back to Oxford (and couldn't afford to anyway, as the property is so bastard expensive there) I can see myself heading back there more frequently to discover more of what was on my doorstep for all those years. Oh no... I've become a tourist!!

Here be pics.

Out In The Open

You've heard the phrase 'camper than a row of tents', right?

Well the place where Stu and I (plus three small dogs) decided to pitch our canvas a fortnight ago, it wasn't just the tents that were camp - the whole place was. A camp campsite if you will.

I'm talking about a wonderful place called Out In The Open, located just outside the small town of Porkellis in western Cornwall (between Helston and Falmouth). The former farm-turned-campsite is run by two fantastic women, Cath and Dee, who opened it primarily for the solar eclipse back in 1999. It proved so popular they now run it now as a campsite for gay people - one of the first to ever be opened in the UK I should imagine.

The journey from Cardiff to Cornwall took four hours plus, so I was a little frazzled by the time we drove up an extremely narrow and bumpy track (literally the width of the car) to access the site. Once there, we were welcomed by Cath who, taking a break from cleaning the toilets, gave us a thorough tour of the site and its amenities.

Cath and Dee keep the place spotlessly clean and they operate the most impressive recycling system for used items. The camping field is large and, as numbers of people at a time are limited, there is plentiful space between pitches. There is even a separate field kept free for the dogs to roam in - which our little trio did to their hearts content. And the girls have also utilised the existing farm structures there; for example an old barn is now been a meeting area for campers during the evening, with tables, chairs, electrical points and coloured lights... however, it does have a strict 11pm kicking out time! As we found out...

The campsite proved perfect for us - not only in terms of peace and quiet, (and, of course, a place where we could just be ourselves as gay people) but also gave us easy access to places of interest in Cornwall. We visited the wonderful Trebah Gardens with it's huge gunnera plants and impressive ranges of bamboos, the truly amazing Cornish Seal Sanctuary near Gweek (Stu's favourite place), the beautiful little harbour town of Mousehole (promouned Mouse-zul, or something like that) and a visit to Tate St Ives (my favourite place!) where there was an exhibition of the work of American artist Alex Katz. Oh, and on our last night we treated ourselves to a fish and chip dinner at Rick Stein's place in Falmouth. Oooh, get us!

However, one of the best things about staying at Out In The Open was the wonderful people we encountered there. We met two lovely couples - Angela and Natalie, Gary and Paul - who we spent an evening chatting to and drinking with in the barn, a couple of northern lasses who were staying in the tipi and a collective of campers who had set up their various tents around a large gazebo with rainbow lighting inside it. And a mirrorball, of course.

One of the more eccentric aspects of the site was the rather large number of Barbie and Ken/Action Man dolls that populated communal areas. It was a lovely touch and the source of much amusement for many. By this I mean every morning when we went to the shower block we were usually met by the five action men in the sink areas in increasingly imaginative intimate positions. Quite extraordinary. And inspiring.

Anyway... here is a link to the site's, er, site. Pics to follow.

The Stair

A bit of poetry for you.

THE STAIR

“I trust your intentions are true” she said, 

As she climbed at the top of the stair.

“Of course,” I replied “My heart is pure”

Yet beguiled by her presence, so demure

My countenance smiling to reassure

Base feelings lay hidden with care.

“How nice to receive you again” she said,

As she climbed to the top of the stair.

And, as before, to the click of the clock

Her figure ahead I began to take stock

And catching my eye, legs under her frock

Where stockings once were, now were bare.

“You’ve kept me waiting too long!” she cried,

As she rushed to the top of the stair.

Ascending the planks with a feverish speed,

Our bodies propelled through our urgent need 

To mingle and fall, inhibitions freed 

By a mutual passion to share.

“Alas - he has returned!”  she wailed,

As she clung to the top of the stair.

Dumfounded I gaze up into her face,

Tear-stained, confused yet still full of grace

Her spouse now returned to inhabit the space

We conducted our little affair.

“I’ve had such a lovely time” she said

Smiling down from the top of the stair.

And I turn one last time to face the front door

I’d become to know so well but no more

Would I see it or she that I’d come to adore

My body now ached with despair.


© 2012 Lance Eggleton

Brake. Read. Chill.

Good Friday 2012.

I've been going out of my skull a bit recently and it's only now that I have realised the extent of how stressed I was. Last week was pretty demanding, physically and emotionally. Physically because not only did I do a gym session on Monday, but also badminton with Beverley on Wednesday, tap on Thursday and a wonderful hike around Clydach Gorge on Sunday - five hours of walking, but it was so worth it. (And gave me ample opportunity for photography!).

Emotionally because of ongoing sagas concerning the sale of dad's house. (Don't get me started...) In fact last Friday afternoon was just one exhausting exchange of phone calls, emails etc, trying to sort a problem that has arisen with the property. Luckily, I had already arranged with my friend Jonathan for some reiki and crystal therapy that evening, and man, was it never more needed. With the amount of fraught energy that was emitting from my being that evening, I'm surprised the crystals didn't spontaneously shatter from absorbing it all. But the evening put me back on track again; the therapy combined with the company of Jonathan (who has been a good friend since I met him in 2000) calmed my soul.

[and I believe it's worth plugging his website again here - Greenfield Therapy]

But this week I've been on a bit of a downer - apart from Monday when my friend Kath and I went for afternoon tea at The Washington Gallery in Penarth; what a lark that was! (And great to catch up with her too - we only really get to see each other about once a year).

Aside from this, I found myself unable to focus properly apart from on immediate mundane activities (such as work - ugh). I felt bereft of creativity and the more I dwelt on this, the more frustrated I became. There was a nagging feeling that things needed to be done, accomplishments to be made, preciously life slipping away unlived. Basically my mind was a mess and had to be silenced with large quantities of cheap vodka. That only worked to a certain extent - next day I'd be back to square one, accompanied by an alcohol-induced pain ripping through my head.

What was to be done? Only one thing for it really - to put the brakes on. And chill out.

So that it's what I am doing today - putting some time aside for myself. As the landlord is in Vietnam for the fortnight, the house in Roath is quiet and I have it all to myself. So I have ensconced myself in the bright conservatory, overlooking the small secluded garden, and settled in to do nothing but read all day. I'm currently engrossed in Anne Rice's pulpy but enjoyable 'The Wolf Gift', with the strains of Rameau's harpsichord music gently tinkering in the background. And it is working - I feel more relaxed and at ease than I have done for what seems like forever. I've stopped worrying about the creative hiatus - that will follow when it is ready.

So the moral is - whenever you're stressed out, put the brakes and take some time out. With a good book, it seems. Or not so good - heck, any book as long as it's engrossing.

My only concession to the above is taking the time out to write this. And to have a Fray Bentos Chicken and Mushroom pie for lunch. But then it's back to The Wolf Gift....

Oh and here is the Afternoon Tea that Kath and I partook of.... classy, aint we!

One soup... and... another soup.

"It's not discrimination, lads, honest!"

The time - early 90s. The place - Barclays Bank, Hessle Road branch, Hull.

The reason; Barry and I were making enquiries about mortgages and how much we could possibly get between us to buy a house together.

We never did find out - the branch's computer crashed as it got confused trying to work out why two males would want to do such a thing. The poor guy behind the counter was getting progressively red-faced, clearly wanting to reassure us it was nothing to do with our lifestyle. Honest, lads.

In the end he had to give up and and sheepishly suggested we try the main branch in the centre of the city. Or somewhere more gay-friendly. Like Amsterdam.

(Ok, that last bit was made up.)

Ultimately, Barry and I never did end up buying a house together. Through a number of circumstances our relationship ended after I moved to South Wales in 1995 to go to college in Newport. But we have remained great friends and visit each other whenever we can, which takes some doing given that I live in Cardiff and he just outside of Grimsby. When we do manage it though, it's just like old times (without the sex, obviously) - out come the French and Saunders/Victoria Wood/Ab Fab quotes that we have burned into our memories. It's a bit sad really - I can barely get through my times table but can quote every single line from Vicky's "shoe shop" sketch flawlessly. Flatter now!

Barry was my first long-term relationship. I remember meeting him for the first time outside the Westgate Shopping Centre in Oxford for a Young Friend meeting. It was November 1990. The other two guys there buggered off fairly early so Baz and I got chatting. I liked him from the start as he was completely non-scene (and I was getting scene weary by this time), intelligent and had just a superb sense of humour. Four months after that meeting we were renting the upstairs of an old lady's house in Botley. Our first home together!

We made the move up to Hull in 1992 after he had finished his degree at Westminster College (and we spent a month inter-railling - that was quite an experience). I loved living up there; we had a good circle of friends (the Hull Gay Men's Group!) and it wasn't too far to get to places like Manchester or Liverpool, just along the M62. Barry set up the Humberside branch of the LGCM (Lesbian and Gay Christian Movement) and we had some great meetings. (The Christian bit was lost on me, but the food, drink and company was always good!). And then there was my 25th birthday party, featuring Barry's infamous memory-wiping, hangover inducing punch that must have contained every alcoholic beverage known to mankind. And more. Needless to say I was not well the following day. Or week.

So I went back up north last weekend to visit him at his new place in Ulceby. And despite having a house full of flash Apple products and a brand new sporty Peugeot (well earned mind - he's one of the hardest working individuals I know) he hasn't changed much. Which is great - I wouldn't change a thing about him!

We went to Yorkshire Sculpture Park near Wakefield which had an excellent exhibition of Joan Miró sculptures. In the grounds of the park we walked, chatted and laughed about times past, and took photographs. Then I bought us lunch at the café there - tomato and basil soup. And I just couldn't resist it. Staggering toward the table where he was sitting and waving the tray around dangerously, I croaked,

"Two soups!"

44

For the last five years I have been somewhat obsessed with the number 44, and I'm not sure why. It began when I started seeing Stu - he was 44 when I met him. The number 44 bus goes past his flat in Rumney. I began seeing 44 all over the place and wondered why it suddenly had such resonance for me. I knew I would be turning 44 five years hence and it made me think that this would, perhaps, be a significant age for me... I was all a-quiver with anticipation.

Then the day came - I finally turned 44 on 10 March 2012. (Strangely enough, I got up early that morning for a call of nature - the time? 4:44). Did I awake to a brave new world, my mind ablaze with enlightenment? Or had I simultaneously changed sex, Orlando style? Not exactly. Well, not at all to be honest. I did, however, wake to a lovely present from Stu; a rather nice checked shirt which I put on and preceded to mince round the flat singing Monty Python's 'I'm A Lumberjack', much to his annoyance.

As it turned out, it was an excellent start to being 44. After dropping Stu at work (and having an obscenely large fried breakfast at Sainsburys) I drove to Oxford to meet my sister Marcia, just arrived from London. From there I drove us to Radley to see our brother Kevin, who had kindly taken dad's lurcher Sue into his mobile home after he had died. We were joined by our older sister Denise, travelled up from Hampshire, who came bearing a rather large carrot cake that just had to be eaten there and then otherwise it would go in the bin. (It suddenly hit me what the number 44 might possibly signify - my waist size, if my calorific intake continued thus far).

From there it was into Abingdon and to the charity shops, followed by lunch at Throwing Buns in the Market Place. This excellent little eatery occupies the building that I used to work in back in the late 80s when employed by the Thames and Chilterns Tourist Board. It was a little odd being sat in the room where once I backed up computer data on discs the size of manhole covers. But the food was delicious and freshly prepared... yep, 44 waist size, here I come. It was refreshing to find such a nice little independent cafe in a town that is steadily being cannibalised by overpriced coffee shops.

Denise left to head home, so Marcia and I cruised back to Oxford with Rossini/Respighi's La Boutique Fantasque joyously blasting from the car speakers. We went to our favourite area of the city, the wonderfully alternative Walton Street, where we walked toward Port Meadow, eyeing up the gorgeous architecture and chatting about what our dream homes would be like.

We wandered round St Sepulchre's Cemetery (more photo opportunities there) and had tea at Manos, where I had been last year (see previous blog entry). I then accompanied Marcia back to Gloucester Green, having a bitch about Anthony Hopkins along the way, where she caught the coach back to London. At the bus station some random woman complimented me on the checked shirt. (More to the truth, she was rather taken by the little toy bunny I had place in the top left pocket... she even called me 'sir'. Odd).

And from there it was back to Cardiff, singing my little heart out as I drove along the M4.

So I've still no idea what the number 44 means for me - if anything. All I know is that 44 is looking pretty good as an age so far. Especially when my two excellent sisters are involved!

Blissed out and ever so slightly moist

Once in a while I get one of those moments that really makes me glad to be alive. That first kiss from my very first boyfriend. Seeing the original 'Nighthawks' by Edward Hopper at the Tate Modern. Standing on the beach at Pittenweem as the waves rolled in at midnight in 2003. The joyous expression on Stu's face when I took him to the Eddi Reader gig for his birthday last year. Receiving my degree award from Betty Boothroyd in 2004. That post bungee-jump rush.

Last Wednesday I had another such experience at Chapter in Cardiff - watching Earthfall's exhilarating dance piece 'At Swim Two Boys'. Fusing dance, live music and archive film, this is an adaptation of Jamie O'Neill's 2001 novel about the developing relationship between two young men in 1916 Ireland against the backdrop of World War I. The set was simple; a corrugated side of a container as a backdrop with a ladder that descended to a shallow pool of water. This is where the main action took place, performed by Daniel Connor and Murilo Leite D'Imperio; two amazing, versatile and physically fit young dancers. Their movements were dynamic, sensuous, and extremely energetic... and that's the reason why the audience front row had to be given plastic sheeting to cover themselves with.

You see there's water involved. Rather unusual for a stage performance. And these two guys don't so much swim as thrash about in it. Extremely energetically. And within the confines of the small space that is the Stiwdio there's not many places the water could go. Certainly not over the guys who were supplying the music, protected by a large sheet of perspex. So over the front row it went. And the back row too. But given there were only two rows (the Stiwdio is very small) the back row got a fair soaking too. Myself included.

But I didn't care; I was absolutely hypnotised and enthralled throughout the hour. Not only by the sheer stamina and talent of these guys but of the whole production - from the music, to the use of archive film (projected onto the backdrop), to the dizzying emotions that emanated from the ensemble. From elation to heartbreak, to (blush as I say this) raw lust as these guys stripped to nothing but briefs*... by the time I staggered back out into the streets of Canton I feel like I had emerged from a dream. A tangible, profound, erotic and, in the literal sense, very wet dream.

By which time I was dying for a pee. For some strange reason.


*pause for a breathless moment here

The Pickup

Here it is, my first foray into poetry...

Enjoy.

THE PICKUP

Air. Fresh air. No longer can bear

The stifling confines of a smoke-filled,

Cheap thrilled, neon bathed cave of 

Sweaty sinew and pound-pound-pound

Drowning sound of rhythm and bass;

The air out here is sweet to taste.

I breathe deeply, freely, gladly,

Ears buzzing madly from 

Numbing noise within; electro-clash din arousing

Bodies to thrash, muscle to flash,

Throbbing crimson glistening on flesh

Exposed to attract, dared to distract.

The phasing pulse recedes as I fall

Into a dizzying corridor of brick and mortar

Mind in slaughter, chemically crazed

I perceive another in my space, dead ahead

Posed with masculine grace,

Breathing fire, illuminating a face of pure desire.

This vision of perfection commands my stare,

Silhouetted there; t-shirt, jeans, torso tight,

Sweating from the fight in the madhouse, 

Released to rest, to burn his lungs 

A creature no longer young yet commanding time.

Presence of prey perceived; eyes flash into mine.

Arrested in stupefaction, body turned stone

Under a Medusa stare, deadly attraction. 

Wordless beckoning, our flesh and bone, 

Fraction by fraction close in proximity. 

With motionless traction the walls draw in 

To entomb, we twins in a concrete womb.

Aching lava scorches my veins, fire searing 

My brain, base hunger fuels my sex,

Anticipating his touch, inches away,

Craving to be enmeshed in firm flesh, 

Bodies to combine, flex, sway,

Lapped in waves of sweet lust; to play.

Peeled away from the trashed neon mass

From the heat and noise retired

Us, me and him, poised to commit

The most ecstatic sin.

The synaptic pistol has fired.

Let the games begin.

© 2012 Lance Eggleton