Philosophy: February 2004 Archives
It's funny, but for a man who has danced with Death (I think it was one of the Barbara sisters at a fancy dress party at Salome's Bar) I do not fear it. To me, death is like the last page of a book that we can never read. It is weird that we won't be able to know how our own little story ends, but one thing is for sure: it will happen one day. I'll be ready for it too (as long as Death doesn't creep up on me while I'm in bed with a lady... I can't imagine anything worse than her thinking that I was simply exhausted and start smoking a fag when she could be giving me some vital heart massage and mouth to mouth).
Years ago, I would have been happy to think that we all go on somewhere pleasant, with lots of dry ice, after we leave this world. I once ran a mobile disco and early one night, when the room of the West Kirkby British Legion was empty I started the light show, using the music from Torville and Dean (I think it's Bolero), and turned on the dry ice machine. I found myself in a curious heaven. I was sweeping around the floor in a haze of sweet music just thinking whether this was what heaven would be like. I decided to lie down in the mist and see what it was like in the white cloud tranquillity. I imagined an ever performing Torville and Dean sweeping through the skies of heaven as we all sat about and joked about what we would give them on six if they ever stopped. As I lay there, eyes open, reaching out into the cosmic fog that enveloped me I realised that I was actually caught in a kind of limbo: a purgatory. As any one who has experience of dry ice will tell you, it can make the floor very sticky. I was glued to the floor. Just as I realised my predicament, Margaret and Joan, from the committee, walked across the floor carrying the finger buffet. The dry ice must have been at least knee deep by this time. I could smell the carnation chicken paste as they closed in on me. It's at this juncture that I would like to point out that I like to point out that I was glued to the floor. I felt like that bloke from the Bostick advert. They were about to stand all over me when Joan stops Margaret and starts telling her all about what had gone on between Maurice and her at the last Garden fete. As interesting as that was I was more concerned about how I could inform them of my presence with out wanting to cause shock or, well, offence. Joan's ankle were right next to my ears and I was on a helter-skelter back to reality: I had gone from a version of Torville and Dean heaven to looking up to the Gods and seeing a middle-aged female committee member going commando and telling her friend what her Maurice had done on the "Win a gold-fish" stall.
It must have looked like the scene from Carrie when I managed to release my arm from the grip of the floor. It shot up like a starting flag at the racers. Needless to say, the two gentle women needed more than a gin and tonic and a rub down from Maurice to calm them down. Maurice, the Chair of the committee, had me out the back before I could say, "I've seen heaven" (may be not the best thing to say after my view of Joan) to tell me that was to be my last gig at the WKBL. I tried to tell him about the floor being sticky, but he wouldn't listen.
Funny, how talking about death led me to that. There'll be more entries on this topic, I am sure of that.
I am Bobby Beamer and therefore I am... Bobby Beamer. It doesn't get more obvious, really, that I am a deep thinker. I once thought about the theory of buttered toast for three days while travelling across the Mojave Desert in the back of Eddie "The Soap" Webb's transit van. I found that some of my theories have matched anything suggested by minds such as Hawkins, Newton, Aristotle and Wogan. I hope to expand the mind...