New Gold Dream
Earlier today I came across a vintage short story in a dark, dusty corner of my computer that took me back many, many years. That’s the great thing about writing down snapshots of your life; even if they are works of fiction, when you read them again they will inevitably swoop you back in time. I’ve added this particular story at the bottom of this post.
About the photo : I still remember being really grumpy when this photo was taken in Venice. I think I was 15.
And what about music? What emotions appear when you hear an old, favourite song? If “Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word” comes on the radio, where does it take you? What were you doing? Who does it remind you of? Me, I’m sixteen years old, self-combusting at the wonder of being asked to slow dance by the boy I’ve had a crush on for months. Oh, listen, now it’s “Hotel California”! What emotions do you associate with this legendary song? When I hear it, I’m in my early twenties (although I also remember dancing to it during school dances in my teenage years), and I’m in a silver Cadillac, crossing the Golden Gate Bridge with my crazy friend who is driving with one foot sticking out of the window! What about “New Gold Dream”? Are you dancing, rolling your shoulders and punching the air?! Because - check me out! - I’ve got all those New Wave moves and I’m the coolest chick on the dance floor! How about “Take My Breath Away”? Does it conjure up steamy scenes in Top Gun for you? Or maybe just steamy scenes, full stop!!! When I hear it, although I do (of course!) see “those” scenes in Top Gun, the most vivid, romantic memory for me is dancing for the very first time with the man I knew I would marry. “Take My Breath Away” still reminds me of that breathtaking moment, over three decades ago, in a grotty little disco in a ski resort somewhere in the Swiss Alps.
About the photo : Take my Breath Away… Cedric and me. So young.
Music is something I want to write about more, because it’s played such an important role in my life. Creatively speaking, I tend to write to music, and choose certain songs for particular scenes; it’s as if they put me in some sort of trance. I remember playing one particular track all day long while working on the first love scene in Just Like a Movie. It’s Swollen, by Bent, and I think it’s quite a sexy song! If I knew how how to link it here I would, but I don’t so, if you’re curious you’ll have to go on Spotify…
And did you also make mixed tapes, or CDs for your friends when you were young? I still make playlists, but on Spotify of course, and I’ve shared some of them with friends. Spotify playlists are great, but in my opinion, sending someone a link to a playlist isn’t quite as special as physically handing someone an actual tape or CD with tracks you’ve selected specially for them. Maybe I’m just showing my wrinkles again. What do you think?
About the photo: That’s me, on the left, with the Top Gun perm, the belts and the cigarette, and all the New Wave moves. New Gold Dream!
Anyway, back to this vintage short story. It’s fiction of course, but I did once meet a gorgeous young man in Big Sur, a million years ago, who had the most unfortunate smile I’d ever seen. I hope he eventually managed to get it fixed, because he was truly spectacular looking. I’ve never forgotten him, and his memory popped up while I was writing one particular scene in Just Like a Movie. I wonder if you’ll spot him while reading the book…Please let me know!
In the meantime, here is a funky little bit of time-travel.
IN THE NAME OF LUST
Big Sur
I wish I could say that my reasons for travelling to Big Sur, California, once the sacred land of the Ohlone Indians, were purely cultural. But it would only be a lame excuse. Lust is the only explanation for my solitary excursion on a rickety bus with equally rickety timetables, in fancy dress, in the sweltering July heat.
I was going back to Big Sur to meet up, hang out and, hopefully, make-out with the gorgeous blonde-haired and blue-eyed Danny, hippy leader of a group of die-hard fans of the late Jerry Garcia and his legendary band, “The Grateful Dead”.
The first time I caught sight of Danny I was sunbathing with a group of friends on what must be one of the most beautiful beaches of the California coastline. He’d appeared, tanned, muscular and naked from the waist up, galloping along the surf on an Appaloosa pony. Having munched my way through a couple of sandwiches containing, among other organic matters, some unfamiliar strain of mushroom, my initial reaction was that I was hallucinating. This guy was THE genetically engineered hippy - the Brad Pitt of hippies - complete with leather anklets, leather bracelets and beaded dreadlocks. If hippies have regalia, the man on the horse had the full monty.
I spotted him off and on during the rest of the few days I spent in Big Sur, but if he noticed me, he made no attempt at conversation. He was obviously much sought after by his female hippy entourage and, as my look was far more GAP jeans than flower power, seemed oblivious to my charms.
But he hadn’t reckoned with the sheer determination of one resourceful woman.
I concluded that the way to his heart was a personal makeover. I returned to my home in San José and found a little Indian Bazaar laden with all sorts of hippie delights. I emerged with long, flouncy skirts, lacy camisole tops, kohl eye pencils, incense and little boxes of minuscule, multicoloured beads.
The next few days were spent inhaling patchouli while squinting over my labour of lust: threading the beads onto nylon thread. I made bracelets, anklets; I even made myself a strand of beads long enough to drape around my tummy.
The fashion show I put on for the benefit of my housemates was a total success. From their bewildered reactions, I decided that Danny’s time as a single white man was up. I slipped on an ankle length pale blue lacy petticoat, a delicate white silk top held up by pale blue satin ribbons and pale blue suede flat sandals. I let my long blonde hair fall down my back, and - to complete the flower child look – spent a couple of hours weaving some of the leftover beads into randomly placed teeny plaits.
My transformation complete, I packed the rest of my new look into a large, embroidered basket and rushed out to catch the bus.
When I reached Big Sur, I fluttered into “The River Inn” and ordered a Rainbow cocktail. Flattered by the approving looks of some of the less desirable hippies, I set off through the woods in search of Danny.
I followed a path along the stream, picking flowers, singing Barclay James Harvest’s “Child of the Universe”, feeling light-headed and carefree. After a while I sat down on a rock by a tranquil, turquoise pond filled with crayfish, half-expecting Bambi to appear at my side while birds settled on my bare shoulders.
Bambi did not materialise, but a group of children of the universe soon did, and among them was, yesssss..., Danny! He’d left his Appaloosa at home today, but even horseless, had that stomach churning effect on me. I quickly rearranged my petticoat, flicked my beaded braids, let one of the satin straps fall casually off my shoulder and pretended to be dozing in the sun.
“Hey gorgeous, how ya doin’?” said a deep, throaty voice. I looked up into the bluest eyes, taking in the sunbleached dreadlocks, noting the aquiline nose, the golden tan, the six-pack stomach, the faded denim jeans and felt a quiver of anticipation. Then he smiled at me....
Danny had no teeth!
My romantic comedy, Just Like a Movie, is available on Amazon