26

hi there, welcome. it is now midnight greenwich mean time, closing up on the 29th of august. welcome. 

for dinner;  thinly diced broccoli, onion, & mushrooms sauteed in a pan of butter and olive oil mixed into double cream, milk, and cheese. this sauce then tops fusilli pasta and is matched with salt and peppered honey-grilled chicken. to finish, some parmesan is grated. it's recently become my specialty, and it's the third time i've made it this week. i paired it with some violet gin & a malboro gold as a make-shift night cap as it's been such a long time since i've had one. treat myself, i guess.

my hair continues to grow, see the picture above for proof. looking like a knob with my artsy posing GROSS. haha! some things never change.

i spent the day with josh & we continued with our exploration of Oldbury Court. the sun and trees and river and the sound of  the breeze sent me into this insane level of peace. i guess those woke lefty libtard snowflakes were right when they said go out and touch some grass. well, what a shocker. anyway, on with the think piece of today.

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we find ourselves, tonight, at Parsonage Farm.

five years ago to this very night i was stood before a certain bassist with an unbelievable amount of tears pouring from my eyes. of course, i had visited the farm the year before and was met with insurmountable rain which, understandably, completely ruined my attempts to watch the stranglers' lead singer cough out a few of their old bangers. dressed in a hecking yellow poncho looking like a right twat, i decided then that festivals were in fact not for me. 

of course, the next year when i inevitably trudged my way back up to Watchet Festival for the second year, the promise of seeing Peter Hook was a much larger draw for little me than Mel C from the lineup prior. it was the first time i ever saw him live- one of the three. and it was the best. i waited on the bar for about four hours, sitting through reggae crap and other nonsense just to hear the best music ever made. ever created. clawing myself to the metal barrier i let the eye makeup stream it's way to my chin, and heard transmission, shes lost control, and then love will tear us apart. in regular life, hearing that song is alot like hearing Mr Brightside; turn it  OFF. but then? with the lights and the darkness surrounding and the hands in the air and the immense feeling of just gaining consciousness? yes it was good. fucking good.

the next year, the world shut off into the quiet that was lockdown. and with it, came the absence of the festival. i turned sixteen, sweet sixteen. what an age to be! for the life of me i cannot remember my sixteenth birthday. i'm sure it was sweet and regular and gentle. i think i had a friend called liv, and i think she baked me a cake. we did a run through the mud and assault course to pair. i haven't spoken to her in three years. but i do recall us standing on tip toes to look out of the skylight in my old bedroom and talking to the stars. she wished for something i can't remember. i wished for a boyfriend.

she was the one who set me up with the man who robbed me of purity. 

the year after that, the festival was back on, and i did my first ever performance of mahogany to a live audience. they loved it so much they asked for me to play it twice. i watched the tea tent slowly fill up with people who would stop by, hear me sing, and decide to stay. and i looked out into the crowd and saw proud faces smiling back at me in approval. i felt i had my purpose, and it was there in that tea tent. it was.

i eventually learned that it was not the tea tent in actual fact that had given me the fulfilment, after months of following it around in a corset and doc martens, and instead was given a rather hefty dose of bulimia. but that's not relevant right now. 

of course, i was supposed to be working that weekend, but i found myself viewing the amp-pushing not as a chore but more as a middle man for the time in between where i could watch bands such as the feeling, the south, & even landing myself a spot on stage while the Barsteward Sons of Val Doonican played "jump around". i remember the crowd so vividly (it was huge), i remember that feeling that i couldn't jump anymore but looking out upon those hundreds of folk and realising i didn't care i'd just keep going because there would be nothing ever in life better than that, right then. 

the feeling played songs that have stuck with me; "sewn", "never be lonely", "love it when you call", and of course "fill my little world". i told everybody that my dad taught me to sing "fill my little nappy" instead when i was younger just about as much as the joke of tetris stacking was made whenever packing a vehicle. some cunt from shed seven's crew got arsey and that ruined that well-loved joke. prick.

it got better, with the sunset and the light evening breeze and the food stubs cashed in for a catered meal to eat on a picnic bench. i had these brown boots that went over the ankles and green trousers i bought there i still own today. a yellow tank top, too, which i sported to bed on the second night as well as a black corduroy jacket with patterns on the inside that kept me warm the next day too. i purchased a brown jacket with tassles hanging from it as well as a silver ring with a bird on it for my new song "little bird" written shortly after. i kept the ring until it started to peck at my skin.

i also bought a necklace with a blue butterfly pendant on a string which i wore the whole first year of uni until in one night of anguish i threw it into the harbour where it sank without trace.

take a minute, here- now. reader, if you weren't there then let me describe the farm to you. a hill in a small seaside town, the sea very close and a large boat in the distance. the birds would sweep down and around in large circles as a flock several times throughout the day. tents behind a very large stage, a purple tent here, a camouflaged tent there, a very large green tent brought along by a possible conservative voter who didn't understand how bloody big the tent really was. breathe it in. breathe in the air. the sea air. the night sky. the view of the stars and the sea. the wet grass under a soggy arse and cramped feet from sitting too long. tea in paper cups. going up and down a ramp that led to the stage. seeing the sun set.

the year after that, two years ago, was the last time we will ever see the festival again and my heart completely aches. i am restless in my attempts to forget Parsonage Farm, and to forget everything i left behind there. where my body was pure. where my soul was pure. but i remember the last night like it was yesterday; the spontaneous jam session in the teat tent where everybody played together and drank rum & hot chocolate, before packing down the huge stage and drinking my first ever birra morretti from sleeper's rider. of course, i only had a sip- it was rancid. but it felt so good. then sitting once more, my eyes and heart stretching across to the other side of the sea.

the drive down was gorgeous, too. the rolling hills i've always thought are no match for flat lands. but the drive back home was agony.

the feeling after getting off stage, setting up for the next acts, morning breakfast, early starts, group laughter, group angst, long walks to the seaside town, cutting bangs spontaneously, dancing freely. i lay down in the grass for an hour and i fell asleep under the sun. i could hear laughter and speaking and i knew i would forever be safe there. looking out over the sea. in the deep of the night. and now it's all gone.