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Tangerine DreamĀ “Astral Voyager”



I always did have an over-active imagination. That is something which I have owned for as far back as I can remember. I used to daydream a lot as a child and, while the other children in my school were learning how to spell and reciting their time tables, I was the one at the back of class gazing out of the window and watching the earth do battle with the sky. It was quite a skirmish; let me tell you. Despite the fact that I was prone to vivid optical outbursts such as these, I never felt like the odd one out, and instead it felt as though I was in on some wonderful secret reserved for certain unique souls. Dinosaurs fascinated me and I knew my Brontosaurus from my Diplodocus before I could so much as spell my name. I was the one guy who rooted for the Triceratops as he squared up against that dominant T-Rex. Everything was possible for one with such an extravagant mind and nothing whatsoever was inconceivable.


It wasn’t long before my tutors began to sit up and take notice. At six I was invited to recite my stories to the entire school during assembly and it appeared as though I may be onto something with the whole fiction thing. It was here that I gained my first audience and felt truly privileged to possess this exclusive gift for prose. I continued to write at every feasible turn and a wide-eyed child has many stories to tell as the universe is revealing itself for the very first time. Then came Jaws; Steven Spielberg’s indisputable great white destroyer terrified me to my very core and suddenly learning to swim became a far more ominous pursuit. It was because of this sulky shark that I put off learning how to float on water until thirteen and he was also responsible for my fiction taking a darker turn. At one point it was assumed that I had domestic concerns although this couldn’t have been farther from accurate. I was a happy, content, positive child; albeit one with a fixation on murderous predators with slobbering incisors and talons capable of reducing a beefed-up gladiator to confetti just by patting him down.


It was a few years before I was openly enabled by my father to watch horror films but it didn’t stop me using the crack of the door to surreptitiously soak in the darker side of television during the interim. By the time I was given free reign of my local video store; my mind was already pre-loaded with grotesque fantasy. That first VHS toploader got some use over the next few years and each tale that I wrote became even more fantastical as a result. Then, at seventeen or so, I thrashed out my first manuscript. I still have the original copy and, looking back at it now, it is admittedly somewhat long in the tooth. However, there are still evident signs of my mind’s design. My vocabulary was certainly colourful for one of tender years but I hadn’t yet fathomed how to truly master my craft. Life was beckoning and suddenly there simply weren’t the available man hours to elucidate my thoughts on parchment.


As it played out; I ceased writing for over twenty years. My imagination was still vibrant and my phantasms still vaguely unhinged but on the outside I became just your average Joe. I clocked in at my desperately mundane job and joined the other rats in the tunnels. Once I had taken my fill of tedium I moved onto similarly bland employment elsewhere and used the 20% of brain matter required to complete their menial tasks in a fraction of the time alloted. This is where daydreaming came into play once again as I had to find some way of surviving each shift without foaming from my slobbering gums like Cujo and crystallizing within a self-constructed mental cocoon. Watching horror movies at every available opportunity still provided much food for thought and my cerebellum played host to a veritable monster’s ball each time I switched off from the white noise. But I had no way at the time of illustrating my imagination, thus it remained pent-up for two decades.


I fondly recall my first few weeks as a scribe. Back then I would work on paper and sit in an open field as I quenched my reinstated thirst for creation. I had no notion back then that one day I would be writing fiction and no concept of where my rejuvenated mind was about to take me. The words flowed thick and fast; my fingers struggled to administer words at the necessitated pace and it became a pastime which filled up each waking hour. I discovered fairly quickly that the edges were no longer closing in and that I was permitted to roam wherever I saw fit in order to fashion an essay. Boundaries had long since suffocated my mind and suddenly there were none. The field stretched for as far as the eye could discern and the metaphorical connection to my work was undeniable. Here I could openly release all that had remained shackled until now. There wasn’t another soul within earshot and nobody to grade my work. Just me and the elements.


I began to believe that my craft could not flourish unless I was perched in my chosen pasture. However, after a few torrid months whereby my entire life changed, I was forced to relocate. For well over a year now I have scribed in my tool shed; the Hilton it most certainly isn’t but it does offer the solitude that I require in order to scrutinize my psyche daily. There are many bizarre objects circumnavigating my thoughts and, from one day to the next, I haven’t the vaguest inkling as to how they will manifest through my art. They just do. I have had two years experience of how to set my words in motion and have learned more about myself during the process than I have since I was a small child. Inspiration is all around me and the limits of my imagination are no longer a factor. I’m free to soar like the proverbial kestrel and nothing pleases me more than to share that freedom with anybody who wishes to lend me an ear.


I believe that romance plays a monumental part in realizing your true potential as a scribe. It is much easier pinpointing one’s passion once life has taught you many undesirable lessons. You begin to assume what is truly important and know of the pitfalls to sidestep en route to wherever you’re headed. I have had an on-off relationship with life for many years and finally the penny has dropped. I wish to live and life is romantic once more. My imagination has broken free of its constraints now and that is the greatest gift I could possibly share. Anybody that habitually reads each piece of literature I post will be aware of a few things by this point. Precious little is off-limits and anything can become hot topic at any given moment. Each part of the puzzle is different from the last and I refuse to become pigeon-holed for my endeavour. Sometimes I choose laughter to reach my point and other times I desire only to strike fear into your hearts. Ultimately I wish to start a revolution and it isn’t about sitting in a throne being fed ripened cherries while plucking a harp. It is about sitting in a field, whether hypothetical or otherwise, and taking a good look at our horizons. I see the most resplendent mindscapes just waiting to be explored and pledge not to leave a single stone unturned as we delve further collectively. Shall we?


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