snoo4

On the waters edge, Puddlemarsh is sitting and weeping. Tule doves were nearby � he watched them circle and dive. About the size of a plate � it was amazing they could fly. Drifted for miles around.

Puddlemarsh wept. How could he have been so stupid? If only he�d said something else. In the word �did� he had written off wealth, excellence, tea, haggis suppers and family pride. Yet, somewhere deep inside him, it felt right.

A tule dove attacked a raspberry winged robin. Then it became entangled in a shuttle of feathers. Puddlemarsh barely looked up. The water cackled, frogs jumped in and out. In the midst of it the biological molecular structure of water was un affected. The words of change need to be listened to in order to scythe down a path to victory and water didn�t have ears. It had plenty of leaches. But no ears.

From the batcave of his mind, an idea struck a rock and was flinted into reception. It now exists � where before there was nothing. His imagination had returned.

It sat beside him, deflated and then it gave him a nifty hug. Puddlemarsh patted it back. His imagination was his best friend. Had been with him many years. It was this that forced him to renounce his princehood. To rule the kingdom that lay before him he would have to part from this. There would be no darkened rooms for him to rest with his imagination. Just the two of them. Imagination occasionally pulling an image of frightening resolution just to wind up his friend. The imagination, Steve, was glad of his decision. For all the imaginary power in him could not imagine a life without Puddles. He gripped a firm grasp of friendship and a tule dove finally came to a compromise with the robin � the details of which we�ll never know. Beyond human convention and undiscovered by them.

Imaginary Steve tried to break the silence. A foghorn came from the mountaintop. With a closer identification it was humming a tune � the buglers march. It was imagination � but very real. Steve was so in touch with Puddles. Puddlemarsh smiled. His favourite tune. His imagination had broken the silence in the way a hot summers day can be created from the depths of winter. The power of denial. A spiritual journey. That is what was needed. Real or imagined. Or is imagination real? Is anything real if you imagine hard enough? The distant cackling of his father was coming to him through the thick stone walls. Injecting into his happy concave existence like a razor blade through ice. Why had they fallen out over Steve. Imagination helds fear for those in power? He�d it been a symbol of new times and how did the UN do with the tule dove?

So they sat there. Steve pulled a few tricks to make Puddlemarsh scream, fry and exacerbate with unknown language and feel the unknown. His imagination came out of a cave and smacked up to him, pulling on unseen image from the back of his legs and making Puddles smarsh. Smarsh so hard he could laugh no more. Then, from a wigwam came a new guy. Jerry wasn�t his name.

He wore a blanket around his shoulders. His head was rested in and outlay of features. His feet thumped up and down. On the spot. �I hear you need a spiritual quest to keep you busy� he said. �Pick an envelope� he produced three and let me speak to both of you again. The man and the wigwam disappeared and the envelope had chosen remained.

He picked it up. Yes. He held it limply in his hand. The grass swayed in a sea of rhythm. A tide of blades. A shovel was nearby. Propped against a shed. It fell over. To it�s side. Oh! His imagination was playing games with him again. Rotten old Steve. Still old Puddles Puddlemarsh loved him and they were great together. Even if he did scare him every so often. Oh. Yes. All the smile filled moments. The letter was read yet it seemed to sparkle as the sun rose to its height and appeared to look down at him, peeping through the clouds. Yes.

Imagination was a good companion and readily available � he had it in abundance. Yet some people were a dry slate. Kurt Cobain had a great imagination. Even when he was wasted and a skeleton that held a gory body. Perhaps his imagination was a withered ghost that shone musical images in bleached shadows on the souls of rock critics, people and them all in general. Steven was basically a nice form of imagination. But like all of his beings he could fathom out a few nasty shocks.

He swayed with the mood of his friend. He had been feeling noxious he might have unplayed a scene from the deathbed. Locked him to it for a while. A tortured the soft but pliable fabric of our decrowned hero. Yes. But mostly he fell into the unlikely but comfortable bracket of friendly world of cosy proportions.

He felt safe near Steve. Unlike Henry, Kurt�s old imagination, he had little musical potential. Henry still lived, but was frustrated cos he could only connect with the one person. Now he�s a frustrated fireball of ideas that tears through the magic galaxy of the all encompassing heights of expanses (Yorkshire) to find his ideas and let them be triumphant � but no one else can see him, yet alone touch his withering hand. Two to make a connection and all that. Tule doves. Rose petaled robins.