There’s this guy who gate crashes a party, a party where there’s a mansion. He gatecrashes the party, when he’s not being a flaneur, those artistic folks who travelled and saw. There’s a collection of artists, art gallery directors, dressed up a perfect picture: There’s property devlopers, Amazon explorers creating a blend of the perfect teas, restuarant owners. There’s a huge chandelier and classically trained pianist playing Mozart. The bar is immaculate cabinets, cases, and bottles and coloured glass, and a diamond and silver sheen of cutlery, and bracelet rings around napkins.
There’s a view of the skyline. The windows and mirrors are large. Everyone has their own views of things. There’s one room that is more for one’s inner life than outer. There is incense, Persian rugs decorated with flowers, birds and foliage. There are candles. It’s a large torquise painted room, with plants and there is a real ambience to the room.
He sat with a leather bound poetry book that was large as an atlas book. A glass of wine seated him in one corner. A splendid assortment of cool magazines are fanned along the table, in a perfect curve as yet untouched. There were large italic fonts of quotes from writers on spacious walls.
The musician had the energy and charisma to draw to him lots of people and resounding success. A storm was brewing. He peered into his glass to see his reflection and the froth were as clouds.
He was immaculate and creative and naturally made an inpression without consciously willing it. He wasn’t a person that was too caught up in the affectations of a rock star, the quagmire of Englishness, but worked quietly on his multifarious craft with dexterous fingers that packed a punch. His craft spoken more than he did. His music projected much strength and personal power. He could sayalot by not saying too much. He despised the musicians who sold their souls, not their goods which were merchandised in a fake manner, the sounds too synthetic in their formulaic boredom.
That said, he felt an affinity with alot of people, his music was nuanced with everybody he seemed to meet, with every book he looked at. His music was an eagle that flew, to the farthest reaches, to the depths of the heart, returning to his glove worn lightly like leather jackets, rolled up two tone jeans, the whole package.
He retained his identity in the cacophany of sound, and characters who were out there doing things in their enterprising manner.
Fire straightened him out. The broad sweep of the spiralling starcase the banisters polished mahoghany, made of the rootsy trees. The characters were like planets in orbit in the journey.
Gatecrashing spoke to him of his independent spirit and his personal power –Gatecrashing was his free spirit –Gatecrashing was his experimenting in the world, bringing different elements together — Gatecrashing gave him many gates that he could pass through, beyond the sole gate of his hometown.