The guerilla flower children are stalking us, hiding out in the woods, scrambling across roofs and sneaking behind stone walls. Their wild music drifts across the hedgerows, sometimes tuneful, often tuneless, the sing and whistle along, random drumbeats follow. Slow and long. It's as if they thrive on the anarchy they produce, self perpetuating energy, running down time and chasing the fade. We've never really spoken, never made eye contact, never been close enough to see more than blurry detail. They are like foxes or badgers, in the night mostly, in the sun occasionally, drifting away into the landscape of changeable weather. Rainproof and unafraid of rampant mud. All they do is leave disturbing traces, messages, signs and sticks, piles of twigs, parcels of dung. Frog and elongated lizard conversations; misheard.
In chalk on a dry road I found a paragraph from their manifesto, I might have written it myself: “I'm no longer searching in the media for answers, for wisdom or for any collection of things that I might at one time have considered useful. I feel a barrier going up; the world is no place to live but is the only place to live. The news repeats itself with increasing regularity as do I. Nobody really knows what they are talking about and all power must be some form tyranny.”
When I say that I might have written it, that's true of many things. I might also have said that I made a cottage pie from local cottages and locally grown potatoes (all known by the name of Charlotte). There are many things I might have said and made. Meanwhile in a field not far away a man stands with a high powered rifle leaning against a small Japanese 4 x 4, part of me thinks he might be up to no good, part of me thinks otherwise.
At night, in the dark, as we sleep, mice scamper across the ceiling about our heads carrying the raw materials needed to make shoes for hedgehogs. Not many people know of that and the related endeavours.
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