a writer of sorts
1. 1983 and faux anarchic romanticism seduces me. Squatting for peace dreaming that the threat of Threads is gone and Barefoot Gen can sleep unhindered; ashen shadows confined to graffiti. The love of peace instigates war and the dreamers look to an El Dorado in the far north; a land of milk, honey and gold not spent; the convoy takes the high road, to high ground. The reluctant child the Pied Piper left behind stares as the taillights pass into fog, moving from protest to communal perfection. 2 2019 and for the first time I visit the fabled site. Far from a radical El Dorado, it peddles alternative therapies, spiritual retreats, crystal bracelets. Tents and benders, yurts and buses replaced by identikit mobile homes and permanence; radicalism by concession; anarchy by capitalism. I leave as the tide edges from the bay. Gulls and oystercatchers scouring the mud for anything that will sustain them. I watch as a detectorist, head down,¬¬¬ blind to the world, deaf to all but the swooshes and wails in his headphones, sweeps across the sand and silt in search of his own treasure. His own El Dorado. Forlorn, he leaves with a handful of rubbish - dreams of wealth departing; dashed against material rock.