Another year
slips out the back while the next
rings at the front
A complete unknown with 365 days
needing to be filled
while spilling over each night
into dreams
that may, or not come true
for some

At last. Yesterday I put the final touches to the paintings for the exhibition. Just as well, as the private view is merely a day and one week away. I just hope the paint dries in time. The background I painted last Sunday was still wet to the touch yesterday. This may mean hanging the canvasses wet. Not ideal, but there could be little choice. If the rain stays away I could try airing the canvasses outside in the breeze for a few hours each day.

That just leaves the remainder of the photographs I plan to hang to mount and frame. I’ve managed to get through about half so far. There will be twenty-two in total, including two AI digital prints that are made-up of sixty-six images apiece. Produced as posters, they feature shots of one street and one avenue, both in New York, titled ‘Positively 4th Street’ and ‘A Walk Down 8th Avenue’.

Next Friday is hanging day. Having a wall plan of the gallery, I’ve been able to work out the position of each exhibit which will save a lot of time and deliberation on the day. All being well, come Friday evening, wet paint permitting, it should all be done. I think a celebratory evening out will be in order. Then, apart from gallery duty, I can devote some time to all the things that I’ve been neglecting for the last three months or so, including this blog.

The other evening I was invited to my former company’s Christmas party. The dress code was Cowboys and Indians. To those, like me, who grew up in the 50’s, this was fine. If you were born a few decades later, bovine operatives and Native Americans may be considered more correct.

The venue was a boat on the Thames. The connection with the western theme may have been a little tenuous, but what the heck. Apparently the idea came from a director who also happened to be a member of the band that was due to provide the live music for the evening – country and western naturally. Then, due to an overdose of musical commitments over the festive period, the band pulled out. As the invitations had been circulated, the Cowboys and Indians survived. On the day, the director also cried off, having to attend a band rehearsal. Mmmmm? Anyhow, it all went swimmingly on the night, luckily not literally - nobody went overboard.

Since leaving, apart from myself, there has been quite a turnover of staff. Looking around, the cabin was filled with people I didn’t really know, performing dances I wouldn’t attempt, to music I didn’t recognise. That’s how it should be. Things move on. I have and I don’t look back with any regrets or longing to return. But it was good to catch up with old friends and make a few new ones.

As I left the boat, the party still in full swing, I passed the skipper, sitting alone in a quiet corner, feet outstretched, glancing at his watch, wanting to get home to his bed: an outsider at somebody else’s party. In that instant, I knew how he felt. Walking along the embankment, the sound of revelry fading into the swish of traffic and deep hum of the city, I knew that this was to be my last Yuletide staff party. And that’s just fine by me.

Watching Russell Brand retracing Jack Kerouac’s ‘on the road’ trip across the USA last night, the urge to climb behind the wheel of a car and drive forever came skidding into my
consciousness.

The sight of long straight roads stretching to the horizon, a ribbon blazing bright in the desert sun, disturbed my static mid-winter hibernation and set in motion the urge to move, ever onward, seeking out adventures new. There’s something about driving east/west into the setting sun that can’t be sated in other ways.

Little wonder Russell’s eyes misted over once the sound of the wheels stopped and the premature decline in Kerouac’s own fortunes once the wheels ceased to turn.

There are nights when the morning comes as some kind of relief. This night was such a one. The wind has been pounding in from the northwest since late evening, interrupting sleep with its clattering of anything that isn’t nailed down tight and roaring through the trees, testing their resolve to stand firm.

It’s the kind of night that has people mumbling half-remembered sayings about how it is worse for sailors on the sea, but I’m not so sure. There, there is the sea and the wind, whereas on land, there is so much more than can battered and sent flying to come crashing down where it will.

My unease is inherited I believe. On stormy nights in childhood, I recall my mother gathering up her bedding and sleeping on the downstairs sofa, one floor removed from rattling roof tiles and leaning chimneystacks.

In the great October hurricane - that of Michael Fish’s worse nightmare, that to this day blows in to taunt him still - I was out at first light, as it was my habit back then to go for a run each morning. All around was destruction and chaos: fallen trees, fences flattened, slates scattered and smashed, shed roofs removed, dustbins tossed aside and sent rolling away, contents spilled and dispersed. I stepped into the road to remove a panel ripped from an advertising hoarding, to have it wrenched from me and lifted skyward as if it were a sheet of newspaper, the sharp nails thankfully sparing my hands. Returning home, first light revealed that all had held firm, we had come through the perfect storm unscathed.

So it is this morning. Somehow in the daylight, when the effects of the wind’s invisible force can be seen and gauged, it loosens its dark grip on the imagination and all there is are racing clouds and bending boughs.

But why , I wonder, do they call the wind Mariah?

‘Away out here they have a name for rain and wind and fire.
The rain is Tess, the fire's Joe and they call the wind Mariah.
Mariah blows the stars around and sets the clouds a-flyin'.’

Blogging has definitely been moved to the back burner while I pile up the hours in an attempt to finish the work I’ve started for my exhibition in January. If I was still hanging on to any notions of retirement bringing an easier life, they’ve long since disappeared.
I’ve three weeks left before I have to make the last brush stroke, which will give the paint two weeks to dry.

Will I make it? I’ve got to. The posters are finished, the flyers are at the printers and the private view invitations have been emailed. There’s no turning back now. As well as finishing the paintings I have to mount and frame twenty photographs and two posters. Mind you, if I wasn’t doing that, what else would I be doing with my time? Reading? Possibly. Gardening? Not in this weather. Decorating? Not likely. No, given the alternatives it’s not a bad use of my time.

Anyway, I shouldn’t be flittering away precious minutes on this. I’ve got a biog to write. Now, how far back do I go? College? First job? Do I mention influences? My favourite eight gramophone records? Top films? Football team………………?