BLUE DOT FESTIVAL:
The familiar smell of midnight mud recedes revealing sunlit
birdsong, tanning it’s self on the beach of a northern morning.
The dish still points to the heavens, the showers deliver hot or
cold (depending on which door you pick). Slept in a tilting bunk
with noisy A/C & a disconcerting whiff of carbon-monoxide – or was
it just a nose phantom? John Martyn as an mp3 floats me to sleep
eventually waking in that ‘should I/shouldn’t I moan’ headspace that
can only be cured by Porridge & smiles which were delivered without
asking by the local caterers sent from Heaven to lift elephants
off the morning mood. People shake my hand, stop & pass the time of
day, exchanging stories & goodvibes. Everything points towards the
light as the sound system fires up & the thrill of a night to come
filled with dancing happy faces feels real.