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Floating Islands

I went to see my brother, who was working from home. He showed me something he has been writing for a few years. It has a magic in it, London rough,London old . It needs work for sure,but yes,it has something.

We talked about travel. I am ready to leave London.  'You're always ready to leave,' he said. My background is travel positive.His,not so much. 'I hate travel,' he told me. He reminded me of all those times,something like  three a year, Dad would make us up sticks and head for Spain and stay for a month or more.  'By the time we came back,' he told me, 'Term had always started and people had picked their friends. All the new stuff to be explored had already been found by someone. And then there was the havoc played with exams and study...' I never noticed any of it. For me, travelling was fun.

The conversation reminded me of a dream I had, one of a few very vivid dreams I recall from my early life; In my dream I was a being who lived at the top of a tree, among the high leaves rustling, but there was a boy or something like a boy who lived in the trunk.

Maybe that boy was my brother, sturdy and wanting the rock-solid, while I was the flyaway.

More than 45 years on I could tell him, there's nothing there, mi principe, just all those little streets that fall down drains into the dark. It's better to fly and forget the exams. Coming back is always an option, the sooty old chimneys aren't going anywhere. What's there to it, but derelict warehouses and offices that shine brightest when they're empty? Cruising car parks and raves in the tunnels under Vauxhall bridge... and even those things are done.

 But we are different. Our observation is so far apart...But it's nice that he'll wave me goodbye as I fly off, reminding me to come back.

There's a music in it too. But we don't hear the same things. Here is something I hear and see. Once I had the great pleasure of seeing De Falla's Amor Brujo performed by extraordinary flamenco ballet dancers.  On its night it has no equal.



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