Ticket To Ride, Book 2, Chapter 2: Just Another Day

pxdxaDisco08Book 2, Just Another Day 

Livy Tinsley, 1975

Every day she takes a morning bath, she wets her hair, wraps a towel around her as she headed for the bedroom chair, It’s just another day. – Paul McCartney, Wings

 

8 years later,  the 70s drug culture had made it’s way into the mainstream and Livy, having bided her time in the normal workings of school, and life as a teenager and, having tapped the strength her mother never had, she’d avoided most of the traps of adolescence, promiscuous sex, drugs, smoking, drinking. Her mother never did any of these things, she just kept quiet, not strong, just abstinent, shivering. Livy’d avoided it all consciously, making choices, but she’d not defused the bomb. ‘Just another day’ she’d think remembering the song by the same name from her, now mythical, Paul. A few more days and I’ll be gone, gone from here. The here that will never be anywhere except here. The here that crushes but never produces diamonds, just the pressure to leave, to squeeze me out of the way, in time to avoid the speeding Lorry with my name on it.

She’d not closed herself so much to not enjoy platonic intimacy, mind to mind, eye burning into eye. Make love to me with your mind she’d think. Reach above your crotch and make love to me, make love to me with your soul. I want to know it.

Physical intimacy hadn’t happened. Not because girls her age weren’t doing it, but because she saw men as weak, lecherous and sometimes vulturous and didn’t want to need them. To other girls in her world they were just the other, north and south, magnets, easily defined as not female, male, the other half in the equation, the equation that makes 1+1 equal 2. Clear, Concise, Pithy to them, not her.

Her father was a weak alcoholic who condescended regularly to her mother and would write her off with a creative compound profanity. She never witnessed respectful intimacy between her parents and only knew them to be intimate when dad was drunk. Mum didn’t seem to like this.

Her application for college would be her ticket out:

“Thank you for this Livy,” Mrs Brompton said.

“No, thank you Mrs Brompton. If you hadn’t alerted me to this, I would’ve never known what was possible.”

“I’m just an English teacher Livy. I know when someone has potential in my subject.”

“It’s more than that Mrs Brompton. In my world things don’t happen like this.”

“The world’s changing sweetie,” she replied, “and I believe fate will smile on you. I’ve alerted Professor Thornton to your arrival. Now just follow his lead.”

“I wish you could come with me.”

“This is as far as I can go at this point. The rest is up to you. Oxford is waiting”

Hours later, upon entering their street, Trudy declared:

“Let’s celebrate Livy!”

“Celebrate how?”

“We’ll go to the Tower!”

“All right love, but we’ll keep it short and we’ll keep it cool.”

Livy worried for Trudy. Trudy liked the Tower in a different way than she. The Tower was “it” to Trudy; to Livy it was a place to blow off a little steam and then get back to things. The night life could swallow you.

The Tower Disco, throbbing. The throb of it. The bass and the lights, speakers to the ceilings, speakers like their own futuristic city, alternately blowing you away, then sucking you back in, with some Captain Fantastic DJ with the fucked up Elton John-esque sequined son of Liberace thing happening like Saturday-Night-Fever-in-training, screaming things like “Oh Baby” and “Swing that thing.”

Livy and Trudy had come here a couple of times. Doormen didn’t care about age. “The more birds the better, gives the lads summat to stay for” the bartender from Blackpool would tell them.

Post-modern lautrecean moulin rouge Livy thought. City life on coke.

“You birds up for a toot,” some guy who looked like Barry Gibb shouted in the faces of the girls.

“A toot?” Trudy yelled back.

“Come on little girl, cocaine, a bit of the white stuff.”

“Not me thanks.” Trudy said.

The ticking stopped in Livy and there was a pause, “I’m in.” she yelled to Barry.

“Right then, let’s go love.”

And he pulled her toward the “gents.” Livy didn’t flinch and flew behind him through the door and past the faces of the rooms’ inhabitants, some clamoring to fix themselves and others just smiling like henchmen. Trudy protested all the way to the door until Livy turned to her and said, “Sod it Trudy. I’m in for it. Don’t make a meal of it lovey. You coming or not?”

Trudy grabbed her hand and the three went through the door together. Inside they found an empty stall and “Barry” chopped the white rock into small even lines. The girls watched as if witnessing a master potter. The room was red. The stalls were black. The smell of all of the piss that hadn’t made it into the toilets mixed with cheap cologne and cigarettes was everywhere and in their noses but the girls had had a couple of drinks and their sense of smell and other things were dim. That was initially to be all, two drinks, but here they were mesmerized by the razor blade craftsman chopping rock. He rolled a pound note and handed it to Livy.

“Here you go love.”

“What do I do?”

“Like a straw love,” he said, motioning to put it to her nose.

The light flickered and Livy and Trudy both looked to the ceiling.

“Here’s to it,” she said and snorted one of three, feeling it burn high in her nose and then begin to cool and drip into her throat. She felt like a rabbit and wiggled her nose, “Blimey!,”  she said and handed the rolled note to Trudy. Trudy followed suit and smiled.

“Oh my,” she said, “that’s delightful.”

Barry smiled and looked both the girls up and down and then pulled a joint from his pocket and lit it. The smell of it was foreign and drowned out the smell of the piss for a moment. Trudy felt sick but curious and extremely enthusiastic.

“This’ll take the edge off of that girls,” he said handing the joint to Livy.

Livy put her lips to it and the smoke got in her eyes as she sucked on it and breathed it in. Her lungs burned and she began coughing as her eyes started to water.

“Good one love,” Barry said, taking it away from her and handing it to Trudy. Trudy drew on it deeply and didn’t cough. She held it in like he had, then let it out slowly. She still felt queasy but the coke and the pot were beginning to mask it. She felt like doing some more. Barry chopped some more and they cleaned it off the back of the W.C. Barry started to think he might be getting some rumpy tonight.

“Let’s dance,” Trudy exclaimed, in an exaggerated and high-pitched falsetto. The three exited the stall and headed back to the dance floor.

Three songs had played when Livy first opened her eyes. Ball spinning overhead like a fly’s eye refracting beams of light shot from behind the DJ. The constant thump, better, the throb, pounding into and through her body, she was lost, drunk, high, swirling like a dervish and gone. People around her disappeared as themselves and became a sort of extension of the storm that she was the eye of. They were moving slowly away from her center becoming less what they were and more like ghosts, apparitions, and poltergeists. She opened her eyes as the music slowed to the end of the song. Their faces stared back at her, hollowed out, gaping mouths, dark and toothless. She couldn’t see Trudy nor Barry until she heard a familiar giggleshreek that made her turn toward the wall wherefrom people were emerging through passages of yellow light. Trudy was smiling on her way into the loo with Barry. She looked more beautiful at that moment than Livy ever remembered seeing her. Another song started. Livy started to dance unaccompanied, trying to break back into the space she’d been in a minute before but her storm was played out and she felt tired. Better get Trudy and go.

She slalomed across the floor, suddenly very weary of the place, and the faces. As she reached the door she felt the pressure of a hand across her chest. Looking down no one was there. Stopkeepmoving she thought. She took a few more steps like one might if walking on broken glass, wanting to get past it but almost paralyzed by thought of slipping in it. From one of the stalls came the sound of Barry’s voice, “bluh-dee hell” as he tried to catch Trudy on her way down to the floor. Her head hit the side of the stall, her body twisted and slid down until her head found its way free and hit the floor like a pumpkin, shattering her cheekbone. Her eyes were closed tightly in a grimace, then they loosened. She lay still. Barry reached down as best he could, around the side of the toilet. Livy covered the last ten feet in what seemed like one great stride and she was on the floor and pulling at Trudy, trying to get her into an open space on the floor. Air she needs air. She pulled Trudy’s head into her lap. “Trudy love, wake up lovey!” Her voice began to break as a knowing came over her, immediately followed by a disbelieving. The two went to war; the knowing could see it was over but the disbelief had to try. She screamed for help and started doing her best to give CPR. Trudy’s nose had flattened against her face, the bridge having given way, and she was like a limp kitten in Livy’s arms. Barry’s voice saying that someone had given them powdered bleach made her want to kill him.

“She’s dead,” the girl next to her said in her ear, removing her hand from Trudy’s heart.

“Oh God no. Not my Trudy… not my Trudy… oh my lovey… my little girl,” Livy said, rocking back and forth, holding on to her until one of the big doormen came in and made her let go.

“The paramedics’ll be here in a minute love. You’ve got to let her go now.”

“You can’t have her. I won’t let you… that’s my girl… that’s my Trudy.”

The Tower had gone silent except for the rain beating on the windowsill at the far end of the bathroom.

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I’m a global citizen. I’ve created that for myself…

johndenver2“My music and all my work stem from the conviction that people everywhere are intrinsically the same,” Denver said in a 1995 interview, “When I write a song, I want to take the personal experience or observation that inspired it and express it in as universal a way as possible. I’m a global citizen. I’ve created that for myself, and I don’t want to step away from it. I want to work in whatever I do…towards a world in balance, a world that creates a better quality of life for all people.” – John Denver

Rhymes and Reasons by John Denver

So you speak to me of sadness and the coming of the winter,
The fear that is within you now that seems to never end,
and the dreams that have escaped you and the hope that you’ve forgotten,
and you tell me that you need me now and you want to be my friend,
and you wonder where we’re going, where’s the rhyme and where’s the reason?
And it’s you cannot accept: it is here we must begin to seek the wisdom of the children
and the graceful way of flowers in the wind.

For the children and the flowers are my sisters and my brothers,
their laughter and their loveliness would clear a cloudy day.
Like the music of the mountains and the colors of the rainbow,
they’re a promise of the future and a blessing for today.

Though the cities start to crumble and the towers fall around us,
the sun is slowly fading and it’s colder than the sea.
It is written: From the desert to the mountains they shall lead us,
by the hand and by the heart, they will comfort you and me.
In their innocence and trusting they will teach us to be free.

For the children and the flowers are my sisters and my brothers,
their laughter and their loveliness would clear a cloudy day.
And the song that I am singing is a prayer to non-believers,
come and stand beside us we can find a better way.

Schematic of all Things – All Things Being Equal?

Worth a second time around…

activistThis poem came to me a few days after 9/11. It was originally part of a short story called “Love Among the Anthrax.” It’s now part of Ticket to Ride. It’s about coming together to achieve common goals. Which goals are up to you.

schematic of all things

by philip scott wikel

I think myself not superior,
but apart,
or better,
and at the same time,
a part.
I think of the things I do as not greater,
but lesser,
at least,
of less apparent impact.
I will not shine in your eyes erudition
on the subject
but instead give you a dim view.
And it’s the you of this that must be figured,
you figure,
and I’ll do the same and am doing the same.
because the definitions are that grey;
the sea joins the sky on a day heavy with fog,
that we must do so together.

Inspirational Youtube Videos

The sun in myself on you and the apparent them,

What first they are not,
what you are not,
and then what I most certainly am;
the I being you as you become the eye in this and not superior,
but apart,
or better,
and at the same time
a part.
And then as a part of the greater,
or the higher,
reaching down to perform the lesser,
or less apparent,
the minute,
the trivial task that strikes like flint,
the power fed feeds.
I,
or now you,
won’t speak in specifics.
I,
or you,
and finally we,
will not give logistics or diagramatic signs of the specific.
Specificity dims the impact of the metaphor,
(the intellectuospiritual machine)
in which to plug the act,
the response,
the thought,
or the feeling,
and then push “play.”

An Artist's Journey

activist This poem came to me a few days after 9/11. It was originally part of a short story called “Love Among the Anthrax.” It’s now part of Ticket to Ride. It’s about coming together to achieve common goals. Which goals are up to you.

schematic of all things

by philip scott wikel

I think myself not superior,
but apart,
or better,
and at the same time,
a part.
I think of the things I do as not greater,
but lesser,
at least,
of less apparent impact.
I will not shine in your eyes erudition
on the subject
but instead give you a dim view.
And it’s the you of this that must be figured,
you figure,
and I’ll do the same and am doing the same.
because the definitions are that grey;
the sea joins the sky on a day heavy with fog,
that we must do so together.

View original post 135 more words

A mosaic of haunting – soothing – mellow – and unforgettable sounds…

fox“Fox Elipsus is a mosaic of haunting – soothing – mellow – and unforgettable sounds that move all of those who look for depth truth and beauty in music. It is full of the peaceful and passionate political environmental and human messages of John Lennon and Gandhi. Fox believes in peace and love and these songs are as passionate and moving as his beliefs.”

My name is Fox Elipsus. I love doing this more than anything you could imagine. From the moment I started doing this professionally I knew I had found the thing that I would spend the rest of my life doing.

I was born in Oxford, England. I am partly Persian, mostly English, and a little Irish too. I speak a few languages, I have been to a lot of countries, including parts of Africa and Asia. My life has given me a unique and unbiased perspective on the world and ideas about how we might work towards peace and fair government in the future.

I try to make the most honest, heartfelt, personal, important, and powerful music imaginable. My music is meant for all age groups, all races, and all nationalities. There is no age group or demographic that likes my music more or less than any other. That gives me hope for the future.

I intend to play a show in every country of the world. I work 24 hours a day, every day, on bringing my dream and my music to life. If you would like to help, e-mail me at elipsus@gmail.com

I am trying to bring meaningful and deep messages back to music, similar to John Lennon. I’m from Oxford England (yes I have an accent) and I have an insatiable drive to reach the world with these words and songs. I hope the world will listen for a moment or more. Something amazing is happening. In the space of a few months I have found thousands of new fans that are soothed and inspired by my music, all over the world. It is growing rapidly, and I want you to be a part of it from the start. I am looking for friends, fans, supporters and promoters. Please listen.

http://www.elipsus.net

One Second Saviour

randomkindnessOne Second Saviour by Philip Scott Wikel

 

don’s liquor store,

a homeless woman kisses my hand

my heart swells and i’m a one second saviour

 

her husband bows as if in reverent prayer

i gave him 3 dollars on thanksgiving and

he probably drank it all but he’s still alive

so he must be eating

 

i see them and now every time

hope that the shelter opens soon and

i know it will and they’ll be warm at night

and less dirty

 

she’s red in the face

with the swelling of skindrenched

in alcohol and relentless sun

but her spirit’s intact

and she kisses my hand

i’m her one second saviour

and they’re happy to see me

Eyes – A Struggle With Christianity and God

Sohei (Monk Warriors) EP by The Julian Day
Sohei (Monk Warriors) EP by The Julian Day

Eyes: Words and Music by Phil Wikel and The Julian Day

 

I want to spend a day in your eyes,

seek shelter from my lies

safe refuge from the wise,

I want to spend a day

in your eyes.

 

Out on the landscape of my life

there resides a burdening darkness

such a lonely

such a lonely

empty

empty stripped-down starkness

 

(CHORUS)

In your eyes I can dream

dream that I might harness

through dreams and schemes and unplanned themes

harness a corner on love.

Continue reading “Eyes – A Struggle With Christianity and God”

A Working Class Hero by John Lennon

lennonAs soon as you’re born they make you feel small
By giving you no time instead of it all
‘Til the pain is so big you feel nothing at all
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be

They hurt you at home and they hit you at school
They hate if you’re clever and despise a fool
‘Til you’re so fuckin’ crazy you can’t follow their rules
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be

When they’ve tortured and scared you for twenty odd years
Then they expect you to pick a career
When you can’t really function, you’re so full of fear
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be

Keep you doped with religion and sex and TV
And you think you’re so clever and classless and free
But you’re still fuckin’ peasants as far as I can see
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be

There’s room at the top, they’re telling you still
But first you must learn how to smile as you kill
If you want to be like all the folks on the hill
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be

A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be

If you want to be a hero, well, just follow me
If you want to be a hero, well, just follow me

– John Lennon

Read more: Green Day – Working Class Hero Lyrics | MetroLyrics

Malcolm X & the Plymouth Myth

malcolm-x-2“If you’re not careful, the newspapers will have you hating the people who are being oppressed, and loving the people who are doing the oppressing.”

– Malcolm X

Some things never change.

Here’s a great speech set to music:

“Malcolm X & the Plymouth Myth” by the julian day

Yes, sadly, I think it’s safe to say the CIA got him too.

And just a note about Syria:

My grandfather was a boxer and settled his scores in the ring. I think it’s time that world leaders put on some gloves and settled their own scores in the ring instead of sending young kids to die because they’re too dysfunctional to work out their differences. Before we get caught up in the media propaganda, we need to take a step back and ask ourselves: Is it worth it? And who profits from war? The answers are first: no, and secondly: No one but the Military Industrial Establishment; arms dealers, war-mongers and the certifiably insane.

Find a hobby guys and stop playing with the lives of others. There’a a beautiful world out there full of opportunities to enjoy life, instead of ending it.

John Lennon – Gimme Some Truth

lennonI’m sick and tired of hearing things
From uptight, short-sighted, narrow-minded hypocrites
All I want is the truth
Just gimme some truth
I’ve had enough of reading things
By neurotic, psychotic, pig-headed politicians
All I want is the truth
Just gimme some truth

No short-haired, yellow-bellied, son of tricky dicky
Is gonna Mother Hubbard soft soap me
With just a pocketful of hope
Money for dope
Money for rope
No short-haired, yellow-bellied, son of tricky dicky
Is gonna Mother Hubbard soft soap me
With just a pocketful of soap
Money for dope
Money for rope
I’m sick to death of seeing things
From tight-lipped, condescending, mama’s little chauvinists
All I want is the truth
Just gimme some truth now

I’ve had enough of watching scenes
Of schizophrenic, ego-centric, paranoiac, prima-donnas
All I want is the truth now
Just gimme some truth
No short-haired, yellow-bellied, son of tricky dicky
Is gonna Mother Hubbard soft soap me
With just a pocketful of soap
It’s money for dope
Money for rope
Ah, I’m sick and tired of hearing things
From uptight, short-sighted, narrow-minded hypocrites
All I want is the truth now
Just gimme some truth now

I’ve had enough of reading things
By neurotic, psychotic, pig-headed politicians
All I want is the truth now
Just gimme some truth now
All I want is the truth now
Just gimme some truth now
All I want is the truth
Just gimme some truth
All I want is the truth
Just gimme some truth