The Afternoon I Met The Spirit of Brian Jones: A Happy Ghost Story Part Three
AA Milne's house at Pooh Corner had only changed hands twice when London financier Alistair Johns purchased it. An Italian couple had put the swimming pool in during the 1950's. As I write this John's and his wife are selling pieces (numbered and authenticated in a laminated certificate) of the pools 320 original blue tiles aka 'Brianstiles'. I frown upon this and I'm perplexed that anyone would want a piece of someone's tragic death and the energy surrounding it. (Trent Reznor owns the doors to Sharon Tate's house which were last in New Orleans, I wonder if they survived the flood...) Someone endured great pain and anguish- they are buying and selling that suffering and the immense pop culture maelstrom that encircles it. I seriously question these 'black magic Ebay finds.'
So while Alistair may be a salesman he is not a keen surveyor as he somehow missed me while looking directly at me. I waved my arms, I danced around...I realize now that Brian Jones' spirit had made it possible for me to blend seamlessly into the landscape-regardless of my height, bright blue jumper and lindy hop. I even started singing and no one heard me. His ghost looked out for me and was glad that I was paying a visit. I came with no crystals, joss sticks or black clothing. i had no selfish agenda.He seemed to communicate that he was here to stay as a specter squire. It was the place he had loved but had only enjoyed in mortal time for a short while. He had felt his bandmates struggle with their own demons and still keep going into the ages of the penisioners they used to take a piss out of. He laughs at them and misses them all to this day. Like one of those TV psychics 'I was getting' resigned, resolute and pliant expressions of energy. It was so sunny when I felt this spirit communicate to me. In my mind Brian Jones was happy and here to stay...no martydom, no tears.
At some point in my" rock god Vulcan mind meld" the sun went behind the clouds and I felt myself calmly being directed back to the main road through the bluebell wood. The wind picked up and the leaves were crunching at my feet, which is to be expected in the UK. To my left Mr.Johns was racing towards my partially hidden figure, his senses suddenly sharpened but it was all for naught as I was way ahead of him. I touched the main road and trotted briskly back to the bridge and my BnB.
That night I laid in bed terrified. Why was that stupid scary pool still there? It seemed so murky and fearsome... But then I remembered what Jim Morrison had written about Brian:
The body, rampant, floating
what is this green pale stuff
You've made of
poke holes in the goddess
Will he stink
Thru the halls
Requiem for a heavy
That porky satyr's
has leaped upward
into the loam
Brian Jones' spirit does not 'cry out' from the grave for justice he simply relaxes and watches the parade from the vantage of Grand Marshall, the pool can go screw.
The next day I found myself in front of the house with two fellow Yank girls I had met on the bridge throwing stix earlier that morning. I breifly mentioned Brian Jones but it was of no relevance to them. The house looked friendly (the pool, gratefully is not visible from the road.)
The owner of the BnB was one of the most oddly stoic chaps I have yet to meet in my travels. By my own admission of frivolity I had packed gobs of makeup, shoes and clothes into an enormous frame pack worn previously by a Christian missionary who'd gone through Africa with it. B and b owners will normally go out of there way to help out guests (especially if you are the sole lodger as I was) but the usual offer of a lift to the bus stop was not extended, in fact he seemed to relish my pained back when I departed.
I caught a coach to East Grinstead and then a train back to London. I would have to find work within the next few weeks as I was not traveling with a great deal of money. I rang up Danny and his partner Steve in New Cross, found a Youth Hostel in Earl's Court and pretty soon Brian Jones was just another cool adventure and few photos that none of my Australian bunkmates really cared for. My first job interview came around via an ad in TNT magazine which usually caters to young Aussies on the prowl for quick holiday jobs (this was pre-Craigslist).
I was unable to make out the directions from the class optional, sofy British accent and mistook 'Ladbroke Grove' for 'Lambeth.' One sixty dollar cab ride later I arrived about a half an hour late to find a instantly familiar face opening a big red door and great me with a big smile. Into the kitchenI strolled and there seated ,in all the Hyper-Dickensian glory you could fathom,the one entity who will easily be the heir to the legacy that is the Rolling Stones and the keeper of the embers once the fires cease to flame.
To be continued...