The porch, the garden, the field, the fireplace

Going through old notepads looking for writings and found this little rant. Made all the more fun by the fact that I now have an old rickety porch to sit on.

All poets ranting of moons, angels, galactics, destinies... I just want fried eggs and beer breakfast from now till the day I die. 

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Good lord is it ever just enough to sit and be? I guess we tell ourselves plenty of time for that when we die’ and rightly so, but to vacate, to escape - even the life I love to lead and am very much leading - just to cruise a little in the separate for a while - to tell a stranger a different story - to not think of how today will be tomorrow and then you look back it’s what’s there to show yadda yadda...

total small town community thought i guess, how easy to not help enough, to not give enough, not donate. When dead we are ash or worm food either way we stop talking and start just unselfishly giving. 

It’s living that kills us. 

I’m not being down in the dumps here I’m in a good mood but just writing the truth. One day things will be enough. One day there’ll be a day when it’s too late and the weight will lift because there’ll be nothing you can do about it anymore. 

On this green day i’ll lay back and think only of the now and forever that will be the case. I’ll eat fatty taste food and drink beers with chasers and wallow with laughter on porches as the world goes by - and the world will go by and look at me and say ‘oh there’s old man Lidster, drunk again, such a shame, such a waste’... but little will they know the ecstasy, I’ll be saddened only by the fact that they may never get to know.. and whether they’ll see it or not I’ll tip my hat and toast my glass their way and wish them well. Life will not be dramatic because all need for the dramatic will have died. 

The porch, the garden, the field, the fireplace - wherever, will be my hard rock candy mountain. I’ll strum guitar and banjo strings singing along not in so much tune but with huge passion. 

I’ll tap my feet and be overcome like gospel singers in my own personal way, and people will walk past and say ‘old man Lidster, such a shame’ but I won’t hear them. I’ll finish up, with old back and legs, open the front door and get me a fresh batch of beers and whisky or tequila, and I’ll go again.