The Merry-Go-Round

A bright June evening. A slight wind blows along the pebbled beach, mixing with the warmth. My hands have a soft, smooth film on them from holding the pebbles.

Two Chinese girls laugh and throw stones.

The merry-go-round patters out its repetitive tune as footsteps crunch into the distance.

The sky is clear and bright. The sun hangs supsended like a God, presiding over the scene.

The calm water sparkles on the horizon like an image from a photograph.

The burnt out pier reminds me of something from a dream.

Seagulls glide on the wind as people paddle on rafts in the sea.

The merry-go-round music has stopped, leaving the sound of traffic and children.
Then it starts up again, louder than before.

I want to grasp the image of this mid-June evening and store it forever like a painting. But the more I try to grasp it, the more it recedes - the merry-go-round, the laughter, the children, the crunching of pebbles, the blue sky, the white sun, the burnt out pier, the seagulls. All are just concepts. And writing them down is like keeping a simulacra of a simulacra.

I wonder is the sound of the merry-go-round inside or outside? The merry dance. Round and round we spin.

Stern Victorians in suits and petticoats swirling round and round in a ballroom on a pier that has since burnt out into an image.

Round and round we go. Laughter, children, warm evenings on Brighton seafront. What's the use of resisting? It keeps going round and round in circles. This same June evening has happened before, thousands of times. And it will continue, thousands of times into the future.

And we can either resist or dance. Dance to the tune of an invisible piper on a burnt out pier, surrounded by Victorian men and women and children. Captured forever on a black and white photo hanging up in a dying man's kitchen.

The music comes out of the picture and covers up the room. A stern Victorian gentleman wakens up from a dream about an old man's kitchen, puts on his suit and monacle and gets driven by a horse and carriage down to the pier.

Coming into the red carpeted ballroom he is welcomed by the band playing a tune which reminds him of a merry-go-round from his childhood.

A child gets off the ride, laughing, and runs to its mother.

The beach is full of people on a sunny evening in June, one of whom sits beside a multi-coloured bag and used coffee cup, writing rubbish in a black book. The merry-go-round music is driving him mad so he decides to leave.