I'm not making friends here very easily. I'm trying but nobody seems to want to be my friend. They're all middle aged. And mostly hippies. I try. I wear long floaty clothes. Christ, I'm almost in f****** robes. Let me in! “Aren't you disappointed there aren't more people of your own age here?” one asks me. “Yes! I'm not sure why...” “I wouldn't have come when I was your age!”
That's it. They all think I'm sad.
That's it. They all think I'm sad.
I go to the Greek Dancing which is fun for a bit, but soon wears off.
I keep wanting cake. What do I really want? Joy! The glow of friendship and love!
Not really knowing what to do, I wander home. I come across a fire, in the rain, musicians, drummers, people huddling, people my age! . !! .
If they were just talking I'd be scared off, but the wonderful thing about music is that you can just sidle up and listen and start humming and it's OK.
So I do. The rain drives us under a shelter and there's a beautiful man making rhythm with his body and in front of him is a blond woman in what looks like pyjamas, skinny legs, big boobs no bra, and she's dancing, dancing, wild, jumping, thrusting her neck forward, bouncing on her feet, to the noise of him, he's clapping his hands, and making noises, gutteral noises, animal noises, ey yeh ey oh ugh ugh.. and I realise they're quite similar to Chartwell's noises. The Beautiful Man is a tall black man with piles and piles of thin dreads wrapped elegantly around his beautiful head. I stand right by the pair, in awe, eyes wide open, maybe clapping along, I don't know, I can't quite believe my eyes, but I find it delightful, totally wonderfully delightful.
They end and we all applaud. Someone offers me chocolate. I gratefully accept. I feel accepted. Ahhh. Everything shifts downward an inch.
The rain stops and we go back to the fire. Beautiful man sits down with a drum and a rhythm wriggles out of him. Another drummer joins in. I sit down. I am happy here, I think. I am with my own kind. I do not want to move from here. A man grabs a silver tray – drum - and a pair of pink shoes – sticks – and begins to play. I get up and wander around. I come back with a spade. Best thing I can find. I sit with it between my legs and start tapping with my nails and knuckles. People dance. We are content. Next song, pink shoes are replaced by the two ends of bunjee chord, I find two twigs, great drumsticks, the neck of the spade is the best bit, we play. I get up and dance beside white PJs lady. We are happy.
The evening moves on. A man wearing cats ears arrives with a man wearing goats ears. Come to the cafe, they say. There'll be music.
We do. There is. They play. We join in.
Then the three Greek musicians from the festival arrive.
Bring your goats! I say
Pyjama dancing woman is sitting next to me.
Their goats! They play amazing bagpipes made of goats.
“Yes yes!” she cries to them. “Do bring your goats.”
Twenty minutes later they arrive with goats. They begin to play along with the musicians. It's fantastic. Beautiful man has come alive. He's like the Peulth in Conference of the Birds. Music will come and go and entertainers will try and nothing will move him. And then something – a sound – will come – and it's Alive – it's really Alive – and he's Alive in response – sitting on the bench, arms outstretched now, back upright and arching slightly, and he's dancing, even with his face, looking around, dancing with his eyes, the music has him, then he's up on his feet and no-one can take their eyes off him.
Next song the greek lady singer sings and my.... wow... arshshs mmmm
The Greeks leave and it winds down
I feel tired
And go to bed