So much for driftwood dreams

Days have passed since I posted about my dreams and aspirations, the one about wanting to build my own floating island, somewhere bobbing about in the lost continent of discarded plastic in the North Pacific Gyre.

I'm not alone.

It seems this meme has spread far and wide, well, The Spectator warmly embracing the article in Wired

Friedman and his followers are not the first band of wide-eyed dreamers to want to build floating utopias. For decades, an assortment of romantics and whack jobs have fantasized about fleeing the oppressive strictures of modern government and creating a laissez-faire society on the high seas. Over the decades, they've tried everything from fortified sandbars to mammoth cruise ships. Nearly all have been disasters. But the would-be nation builders assembled here are not intimidated by that record of failure. After all, their plans are inspired by the ethos of the modern tech industry, where grand quixotic visions are as common as BlackBerrys, and they see their task not as a holy mission but as something like a startup. A couple of software engineers came up with an innovative concept, then outsourced it to a community and let the wisdom of the crowd improve on it. They scored financing from a top-tier venture capitalist and assembled a board of directors. They will be transparent, blogging their progress. If they fail—which, let's face it, is the most likely outcome—they will do so quickly, in time-honored Valley fashion. But if they succeed, they have one hell of an exit strategy.

From the looks of things, their plans are a bit more developed than my own, with heli-pads and floating support columns.

I think I'll stick with my plan of building my stead from marine debris and sargassum, I can use ghost nets to bind it all together. Might have to relocate to the North Atlantic Gyre rather than the Pacific, its closer to home.

Hmph, on reading the article and the youtube videos attached. I reckon for the pro's who don't want to make their island out of garbage, they'd be best off buying a handful of really big ships, like the ones clogging up Hong Kong, and lashing them together. Maybe welding them together, but aye, something that's alread built and seaworthy. It'll be good for a few years, but then when one of the middle ships springs a leak and sinks, you'll lose half of your island.

Back again

I've walked for miles and miles. For days I've had this vision in ma heid of a beach at sunset. It could have been Skye or Loch Lomond or countless other places from the past, it was warm, the midges not too bad, An Teallach on the horizon and friends farting. Lost somewhere in the past.

This vision needed to be visualised, verbalisation ain't enough, so I sought photos from which to sketch.

I knew the territory was dangerous, but overestimated my ability to withstand the feelings of jealousy and rejection. It held my insides so tightly, I couldn't breathe.

Before things could get worse, I shut down my computer, unplugged it and sprinkled salt over the threshold.

Outside the sky was blue, children played football, folk trekked home from work and I headed north to the Grand Union Canal, then followed the towpath east towards the city.

In my mind, the same feelings rocked like the maelstrom. Dark storm clouds rose on the horizon, jagged shards of lightning heralded the opening of the heavens. Snow, hail and rain. The weather suited my mood, but sadly not my clothes.

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Eleven miles later, the sky was blue and cloudless, darkening with evening. I rolled into a quiet 13th Noteish bar, Oh Bar, grabbed a pint of Guinness from the barmaid who looked like Cameron Diaz and started forth onto the ether with my mobile phone.

63336 Any Question Answered says "The London Bowlie kids are going to see 'Hayman, Watkins, Trout and Lee' perform downstairs at The Kings Head, Crouch End. Last Harbour are also playing". Folk in Glasgow are going to The Flying Duck and I fell asleep reading Atlas Shrugged.

It was a mindboggling combination of trains and buses that got me to 2 Crouch End Hill.

£9 in and missed the support act. The room was dark and full. Jona present and Gina near the bar, 63336 was right.

I settle at the back with my notebook. A beautiful girl with her hair in ringlets sits not far away.

On stage, the familiar drawl starts. Whilst for years I was just vaguely aware of Hefner, it wasn't until the joyful days of 2006 that I was taken along and warmly embraced the songs and the music.

This carried on through the dark days and into the sunshine of 2007 with countless more shows caught.

I still find myself aching, what am I doing here? What do I hope to find? The answers are not in the music.

Its a bit bluegrassy, as advertised, warmer and more embracing than the usual awkward pleading. The between song banter seeks to undo this step change.

I had the fear that for this gig, there would be no photies at all, not even the usual blurred, badly taken ones as style. From where I'm sat I can't see the stage, neither can the beautiful ringlet girl. Luckily some folk sat nearby invite me to stand in front of them where I can get a perfect view of the stage.

Tears of gratitude well up in my eyes, blurring my vision as I try to return to my seat, I knock over their table and eliminate about six drinks.

Bruce Springsteen - Hungry Heart

Its a mostly seated kind of place, chairs arranged irregularly to take account of the structural pillars in the building, some architect's comedy.

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The crowd has thinned markedly when Last Harbour reach the stage. Probly folk wisely seeking a way home from this middle of nowhere corner of London. If I lived here, would the turmoil of the first few paragraphs have occurred? Who's to know?

I have a hella long way home tonight, but as your thankless reviewer I stay to scribbled and glance up, looking for signs of life amongst the zombies.

The mob on stage started off sounding a little like Arab Strap. You know how The Just Joans' re-recording of 'Lookin' Like Rain' sounds a little like Arab Strap, well, if The Just Joans and Last Harbour merged, it would be a complete Arab Strap.

The set progresses and they start to sound like Butcher Boy.

Halfway through the set something incredible happens, they have the keyboard player sing. From where I was sat, I couldn't see the keyboard player until she stepped up to the microphone, it was Gina.

The last time I remember seeing her was eight months ago, when I first arrived in London, she was doing the door at The Social, she looked up at me and said "Do I know you?"

We first met in 2002, in Glasgow, B&S at the QMU, having chatted for months previously on the internet, our communicae has been intermittent or incidental ever since. But after six years, I finally see her on stage, hear her band, hear her play.

It was amazing.

The room crystalises. I start seeing things, noticing stuff that I wouldn't have earlier despite 63336's best efforts. Right there in front of me.

My heart swells.