There’s a wine called ‘Barking Mad’.
I liked it so much I bought six bottles and drank them all.
Not in one night, of course.
There have been times when I have been barking mad:
Over the insurance company’s delay in fixing my storm-damaged gate because ‘it is just a gate’,
Over next door’s yippee yappy dog who goes off when I piss under the lemon tree at night alarming the neighbours and the back lights go on to see what’s up [ Can’t a man piss in peace? ]
But mostly it’s the scammer with the heavy Slav accent who phones every few days to tell me my internet has been infected and will be turned off unless I phone a certain number.
It hasn’t been turned off yet and I haven’t phoned.
Over petrol prices that go up and down like a wild week at the Dow Jones.
I could go on but you get the idea.
Everyone is a Howard Beale barking mad at something.
Could you squeeze her
into a haiku? No, that would not do.
Her life was too sprawly.
It simply wouldn’t fit.
Something larger, more inclusive.
Perhaps a biopic.
I went out today without my mobile phone.
It felt wanton.
I know something dreadful will happen.
An accident. A death.
A crack in the surface of things.
And someone will try to contact me.
It’s happened before.
My daughter giving birth.
I was three hours late.
But nine times out of ten it doesn’t.
It’s a gamble.
A dead weight in my pocket.
The world can do without me for a few hours.
I’ll be back, as Arnie says.
There may be messages saying,
Where the hell are you? We’ve been trying to contact you all day!
And I’ll answer winsomely,
I just stepped out for a moment.
What’s your name?
Really? You’re famous.
Bugsy, I suggest? Dorothy, the film star? John Malone, the media magnate?
Never heard of them. No.None of those, she says. Post Malone.
What a stupid name.Never heard of him.
You should check him out. He’s on You Tube. He’s a real cool guy.
So I do. She’s right. Now I play him all the time. My namesake. How cool to share your name with a famous rapper.
The great roads do not have them:
The Road Less Travelled,
The Yellow Brick Road,
The Road to Damascus.
Nor the vinyl ones:
John Denver’s ‘Country Roads’,
‘The Highway to Hell’,
The Beatles’ ‘The Long and Winding Road’.
Only the lesser roads have them:
The pot-holed, crumbling ones,
The ones we have to travel:
She likes the new me, the gentler me.
The one that’s considerate and consoling.
The nicer me. The fun me.
The accepting me.
Not the old one
Who criticizes and condemns
From his high moral ground.
Though we all know the old me lurks
just beneath the surface.
The creature from the black lagoon.
Not the first cab off the rank
Nor the last cab to darwin
Nor the one de niro drove in taxi driver
Not even the big yellow taxi that joni mitchel drove to the top
Of the charts
But a little black and white number which took me to the icu
Late in the night the day juno’s heart packed it in.