An (almost) full moon and over the rainbow bridge with the Tin Man
An (almost) true story
It was just after 4pm on a cold English evening when, with the rumble of an as yet unseen train growing louder in the near distance, I stood on the railway overpass near my home away from home away from home away from my real home, when just to the right of the railway tracks I spotted the (almost) full moon, shining high in the evening sky. The past week or so had seen a Dickensian gloaming sitting permanently on Shakespeare’s Sceptred Isle and now finally lifted, the setting sun was almost visible from my vantage point too as the train if not roared past below me, ambled its way to its next destination. As I followed the train’s rear red light arcing around the corner of the track I turned my attention back to the near full moon before thoughts turned once more to another home away from home, a picture book toy town beside a river, and the setting of so many of the tales I tell myself. This particular tall tale was of two gentlemen, a tall dark stranger and the titular father figure from “Conversations with the Father” and their late night meetings beneath a full moon shrouded in a future “Forever Mist” enveloping the entire world. One of our characters is a phantasm, the other very much alive. Friends across the ages. Breaking curfew. Needing the companionship of the other, a ghostly shoulder on which to cry. I gazed at the (almost) full moon for far longer than should be readily admitted to before smiling through the tears of a clown and wondering aloud why I was thinking of these two characters, these tales I tell myself, and I haven’t thought of them since.
The setting sun was very definitely visible on the way to the church if a little low now, and surrounded on all sides by a purple, reddish haze. Thoughts now turned to the chasing of the sun of summers past, recent or otherwise, that shining bat signal in the sky: playing cricket with friends, European travels, watching a young boy screaming with delight in a garden paddling pool, the playing of games over breakfast with a merry prankster, the apple of my eye, the sunshine, chasing away the clouds. I followed a black cat through an alleyway leading to the church (or was the cat following me?) I can’t be sure. Autumn leaves were scattered on the grounds of the church and just enough natural remaining daylight allowed me the pleasure of standing and watching a squirrel bounding and jumping its way toward a second squirrel I only noticed as I began to make my way toward the railway station and another railway overpass. Another train. Another rear red light eventually moving slowly into the distance and out of view. Another (almost) full moon, the perfect backdrop once more to an almost picture book setting, still shining brightly in the clear night sky.
The adjacent churchyard was empty on my return yet the historic market town that surrounds both the train station and church was a hive of activity. It was approaching 5pm now, the sun had finally waved goodbye to the day to be replaced by the slowly moving (almost) full moon and the glittering and the blinking of the Christmas lights being erected and connected to the horseshoe of buildings on the perimeter of the church grounds. As the working witching hour neared I positioned myself directly in front of the large, imposing church building and deliberately with a sliver of a line of sight through the trees to the lunatic’s friend shining high in the sky. With barely any artificial light to be had except for the faint and dull light from the train station and the intermittent Christmas lights blinking on and then off again in the near distance, the church was only illuminated by that (almost) full moon as the hourly chimes finally rang out, the chimes of a city far, far away. The sounds of home.
There’s an inscription above the entrance way to the church that reads “All seats are free and unappropriated forever” but not on this evening and perhaps never for this particular heathen, this agnostic clown or tin man with a heart the colour of coal. The hourly bells may have chimed but the door was firmly locked shut and so I found my own free and unappropriated seat on a bench and in the words of a song I hold dear to my broken heart (and which I’m sure will never be played inside this particular church) I sat and talked to God but he “just laughs at my plans”. Which is just as well as I’ve had these selfish and despicable plans for over thirty years now and I’m still sat here talking to myself, or talking to an entity that doesn’t exist whilst saying hello once more to the ghosts of a past that haunt me, sat on a bench in a churchyard, the twinkle of Christmas lights blinking on and then off again in the near distance.
Oh for the plans of the tin man, a man in search of peace.
"Tales I Tell Myself" - link to Amazon
Thanks for reading. I hope this message in a bottle in The Matrix finds you well, prospering, and the right way up in an upside down world.