I stroke and slide my fingers along its length... it weeps.
Stooping forward, my lips part, almosting touch it's head... I softly envelope it with my warm breath. No restraint, it comes... softly at first...
The microphone transports my voice through the PA system, prompting the throng to chant my name as I manipulate the strings of my Fender Stratocaster. It hangs low across my thighs as I caress it with peerless virtuosity. It wails and whines and I croon to the crowd.
I love my rock and roll fantasy. A modern meditation. For a while it soothes me, in the same way as sitting meditation. It's om with oomph!
Now the summer is a faded memory and again I face the long wait to Christmas. My mood is changing. Last year was particularly bleak. Across the festive break and beyond, the sky was dark and low, hemming me in. Spiritually, I was diminished, to the point my doctor prescribed anti-depressants. I perservered, for less than a week (I'm known for my commitment and tenacity) before throwing them, 'my little friends', into the bin. Fuck them, I thought. They're only dealing with the symptoms. I preferred to take my chances and go for the ride.
The situation improved...
And so it comes around again. The passing of summer, and the onset of the long, long winter herald the onset of my 'blues'. But SAD (the alleged seasonal affective disorder), is not the whole story.
Autumn sees the end of the caravan Holiday Park season. At the back end of October, utilities are switched off and the caravan interiors littered with bowls of salt, strategically placed to absorb excess moisture. The television and hi-fi are wrapped in bubble-wrap and blankets, protecting them from winter's extremes; mattresses and removable cushions are precariously arranged, stood on end, or propped against convenient furniture, to allow maixum airing. The once warm and inviting interior takes on a cold, inhospitable air. And the steady dribble of occupants away from the park, leaves the site with few signs of life, as it takes on a sad and melancholy air. But Saddest of all is its personal significance - gone are the occasional weekends when Janet visits the caravan, leaving myself, and the animals, home, alone.
Solitude is my life's blood. I need the occasional fix to shake free from togetherness's cosy but constricting bonds. I need to experience, for awhile, myself. Lest I forget.
Roll on Spring.
Till then, to help me through, I'll look to my Ipod. Let's see, Bowie I think. The Jean Genie. The crowd are going wild...