Going To The Big Something Out Of Skye

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Picture by Andrew Peutherer Prints

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Sit back, relax. I want you to feel your body, I want you to feel the vital energy that activates your limbs. The energy in your toes, ankles, calves, knees, thighs, pelvis. In your belly, torso – breasts if you happen to have a couple – shoulders. In your fingers, hands, forearms, arms. In your neck, feel your neck. Ultimately, the head: full of thoughts, worries, desires, fears, ambitions. Get rid of those, please. It’s easy: just be aware of the electromagnetic energy in your head, and in your whole body. Now feel your chest, feel your heart-center and relate to it as the core of your being. Close your eyes for a while. Try to maintain your awareness on that subtle electric sensation in your whole body as long as you can.

Now you’re ready to read this.

James is ready to leave. The bags are packed, the sails are tacked. Tina is waiting outside near the sailboat, she looks astounding in the grey light of the firth. She smiles. She’s looking through the window glass at James who’s making sure everything is turned off. One thing’s already for sure, the vibe is everything except off. They are flowing. Flowing through the game of matter, since they gained access to the fourth dimension. Life is a dream – repeat it a couple of times, life is a dream. They are right where they need to be, which miraculously matches with where they want to be. Or maybe, they finally got it. The two things always match.

Tina stops James’ enthusiastic boarding by clutching the edges of his coat. She looks at him in the eyes and kisses him. “Now, you can go.” He smiles and carries all their luggage below deck. “Wait! The moca coffee pot!” he yells.

“I’ll take it. You set the sails, love.” She jumps off the boat and almost breaks her ankle – she giggles. The wooden house still glows with the light of the small portion of existence they shared there. Tina plucks a bunch of buckthorn berries before going, they might come in handy. They cast off, James reaches the helm and adjusts the course. The salt is in the air, the seagulls guard the land – they’ll make sure everything carries on well while they’re away. Tina and James exit the firth and its pines. They sail on to the Isle of Man, then make a stop in Bangor. Finally, they reach the Isle of Skye. From there they will cross the ocean. But let’s focus on the now, the only existing moment.

Portree is just gorgeous. They stop and sit in the colorful harbour with their guitars. He repeatedly strums a chord in the gentle breeze: D minor. She starts elaborating an intricate arpeggio in accordance with the gulls’ song. Then they switch abruptly, she picks up the rhythmic role. James’ fingers dance through the scales and bends of his blues-rock solo. The tourists who appear along with the flowers in spring – some of them actually look like bizarre flowers – groove to their random music show enjoying the beauty of the scenery even more. They play Stand By Me by Ben E. King: she sings the background vocals with gut-shaking precision, he lets his voice come out as if it was running water from a mountain spring. Everybody gather around them; even the bagpipe player from the other side of the wharf decides to come over, perhaps he was a bit tired and needed an excuse to stop. Afterwards, they play the homonymous song by Oasis, Wishman by Trevor Hall, and Ice Cream Man by young Tom Waits.

“We have a last song now, from our friend Herons, it’s called The Valley.” says Tina.

James strums a series of long chords. F major sharp, D major, A major. Tina decorates the sequence with some high note drops. So they start singing in unison: “Way down to, way down to the valley… Way down to, way down to the valley…” and James shouts, “One, two, three, four!”

The rock song echoes in the bay, fresh and uplifting. And, surprisingly enough, no-one bothers to record it. Tina and James thank everybody wholeheartedly. People throw coins and notes in their funky hats. However, paper and metal discs will serve no purpose in the ocean, they’re better off spending them for more supplies and a bottle of gin – you never know.

Dawn bursts purple on the horizon, the seagulls salute them as they cross the billows like street acrobats. The show is set. The symphony plays wild. It smells like thunder and lightning, but it doesn’t matter. Death is just like falling overboard and melt in the sea of creation, or at worse, bump on a new boat.

 

Herons

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