SF. Pt.26b. Gulf Stream

Well that was the end of the ‘non-fight’. Jimmy and Bob wander off down the beach. I ask Simon if he feels like sailing over to see Oscar? No thanks, he says, I’ve seen him once, that was enough, and besides I have to get back to London. The Brit Awards are coming up and I’m the MC.
‘Fair enough,’ I say, ‘nice seeing you again anyway.’
‘Likewise.’
So I round the girls up and get them back on the boat. We bid farewell to Foxy’s fair haven and set an easterly course which is never easy down here but today we’re lucky and we soon pick up a nice little breeze. Mainsail and a jib should do it. Funny meeting Simon like that. Brit Awards eh. Wouldn’t mind watching that. Got to keep up with the trends.

The British Virgin Islands are located a few degrees south of the Tropic of Cancer which got me thinking about Henry Miller. Old Henry liked to let his mind wander…chaos is the score upon which reality is written said Henry. It was Samantha who got me reading stream-of-consciousness writing which is usually regarded as a special form of interior monologue and is characterized by associative leaps in syntax and punctuation that can make the prose difficult to follow, tracing a character's fragmentary thoughts and sensory feelings. Not to be confused with dramatic monologue used chiefly in poetry and drama wherein the speaker is addressing an audience or a third person. In stream of consciousness, the speaker's thought processes are more often depicted as overheard in the mind (or addressed to oneself) and generally considered a fictional device.

Marcel Proust, James Joyce, Virginia Woolfe they all had a crack at it like so I’m thinking why not have a go yourself Dick put ‘Milly’ not Molly on a long tack and have a little threeleaf ramble tá fáilte romhat just like Henry bare light-bulb stuff Miller I can still smell the formaldehyde dodging psychophants in Plaka picking up the mail at the American Express in Syntagma Square now a McDonalds writing long excited letters to Larry sipping ouzo in a Piraeus whorehouse deciding eventually on a tallish one with melancholy eyes words flitting comma thousands of them comma like fireflies between Paris and Corfu or enjoying a coffee in Les Deux Magots perhaps buying a Herald Tribune from Jean Seberg look-alikes while I wait for inspiration at a long marble bar long hand no revision Gauloises and pissoirs just let it run or an Irish Times lost in the ladies lavatory and don’t worry too much about the intelligibility and communicability of each momentary thought bugger punctuation he has a wife and eight children in Bombay not to mention the numerous little femmes de chambre try those italics FTSE talks about picked up along the way it’s all female flesh and they all get mixed up with Molly anyway if you read enough no not the one from Flanders a whore always shoplifting anything she could cloth and stuff and yards of it wors’n Uncle Slayton with his Texan pride back in the thickets with his Asian bride got a Airstream trailer and a Holstein cow still makes whiskey 'cause he still knows how plays that Choctaw bingo every Friday night you know he had to leave Texas but he won't say why full stop.

Right that’s that. Just words. Nothing new. Now to make it look like it hasn’t been edited. Like Ewan says…making it look natural is the trick which is why I’m sat up the back in my Speedos with a flying fish in my lap. Wardrobe adjustment time. What a cynical old bastard you are Dick. Only 600 words. Hope it satisfies poncey.