SON OF DIRT:
I left Cardiff, instinctively drawn back home to that small
backwater town I previously couldn’t wait to leave. This time
I discovered a family waiting for me that I completely connected with,
they listened, gave me space, watched me slip out to the pub with my
old school mates, stagger home & gradually open the shell. I was
shocked to find parents that were cool & a grandmother who let me
into the wildest secret of all, ‘that she’d been young once too!’
I never looked at my family the same again, they loved me & I never
knew how much till then – all thanks to the loss of a girlfriend .
By the end of the week I was ready to return to Wales, to pack up
& get a job. At least I felt strong enough to walk streets still
haunted by the ghosts of memories – it would make a great song.
Back at college, sitting in my shaman’s hut, ankle deep in sand,
surveying the quaint little objects I’d created in a previous
life, I thought what valueless crap it all looked now & how far
from reality. What had possessed me to wasted time on such childish
pursuits? I sat there in the gloom, angry at every tiny detail of
that hut, feeling nothing but disdain for Art & the tutors who thought
I was worth teaching. An hour passed, maybe longer, I didn’t move,
listening to the voices outside, laughing, life continuing, people
doing business regardless of my pain.
There was a collection of wooden balls in front of me, a game I’d
been working on before the crash. They waited, half painted, blinking,
watching to see what I’d do, holding their breath. By rights I should’ve
shovelled the lot into a bin & got out’ve there. Instead I decided they
needed finishing. Picking the first ball up, turning it around, it told
me what colour it wanted to be &
I dutifully obeyed – everything turned around from there.
Soon after, my drinking mates invited me into the Brotherhood of Dirt,
I became an official resident of The Punk House. Now, with all
credentials correct, I could take my place in the world’s best party
house. Les, who had the tiniest room at the top, invited me to
share with him. The walls were the best kept in the house, not a single
crack or blemish, as he stole plaster powder from college to skim them.
They were smooth, organised, together, I was in good company & going
places!
Our beds were two fire doors rescued from a skip, laid at right angles
to each other & propped up on bricks. I slept in a sleeping bag on top of
mine & in the morning cooked breakfast over a one bar electric fire.
In the gloom of a tiny landing outside I stored a sealed jar of bones from
the last Sunday Roast I’d had with the girlfriend. She’d moved in with the
new bloke & was living next door. It hurt for a week, but like that jar of
bones it never got opened again.
Art became my closest friend & though our relationship sometimes grew a
little thin, I never let go of it again.
(K)
Karl Hyde 