Catapult.IO

A note to the Military Rulers of Pakistan and their Masters in Washington:

My name is Roger Waters. I am an English musician and a passionate supporter of fair play. What you are doing in Pakistan is not Cricket.

IMRAN KHAN must be immediately released from his false imprisonment so that he can lead his party the PTI in a new fair and transparent election so that Pakistan can have a properly elected democratic government that actually represents the will of the people of Pakistan. Not the interests of foreign and domestic oligarchs.

Yours sincerely,
Roger Waters

Chapter 24: Just another dream
Tuesday 23rd May 2023
Prague

This morning I woke in a small, cold, byzantine, domed room in Prague. My Missus Kamilah was there beside me of course. Beyond her was the dog. A sort of black and white liquorice, all sorts twirl of heat retention, nose tucked under tail, soft underbelly protected from the wolves, you couldn’t squeeze two fingers past the sharp elbows towards the hot, vulnerable tummy bits in the castle keep. Safe. Asleep. It was dark.

I sensed that K was awake, I listened, there was the almost inaudible but unmistakable sound of a lip tremble. My Missus had had a bad dream.

“Babe?” Tremble. Sob. “What is it?” Essentially, she’d been embroiled in some household malfunction in her dream and had called me for support. A stranger had answered my cell. “Who are you? Why are you answering my husband’s phone?”……”Roger’s dead, we found him in his truck with his guitar, he had one eye open.”

Well, you can imagine. We had a big hold me. I held her. Spoon and number one. The dog, Sweet Georgia Brown, slept on. Then we talked, “I love you”….”I love you”…..”I was frightened.”……….”Of course you were.”

When you lose someone you love, (Even if it’s only a bad dream), it does serve to remind you that this is not a drill. So we got up, all the usual stuff, p**s, contact lenses, (Shouldn’t you do contact lenses before p**s, what if you p**s on the seat?), hearing aids, morning meds, protein shake, pretend caffé latte, check emails. We went upstairs to the beautiful terrace room, my lovely wife had some French toast for breakfast, I lay on the sofa. I thought about the dream, the following lyric popped to the front of the queue.

“They found him in the wreak with his hand upon the throttle, he’d been scolded to death by the steam.”

Where did that come from?

I looked it up.

Boxcar Willie

The Wreck of The Old 97.
September 27th 1903

“He was going down the grade doing 90 miles an hour
When the whistle broke into a scream
He was found in the wreck with his hand on the throttle
And scalded to death by the steam

Well, a telegram came to Washington station
And this is what it read
"Oh that brave engineer that runs old 97
Well, he’s lying in old Danville dead"

Now come on you ladies and from me take warning
And from this day on, you must learn
Never speak harsh words to your kind-hearted husband
He may leave you and never return.

Well, Kamilah and I hadn’t had harsh words, but……… it is all too easy to let all kinds of extraneous stuff interfere with love and the short warm moment we call life.

To quote the end of another song:

“When my synapses pause
In their quest for applause
When my ego lets go
Of my end of the bone
To focus instead
On the love that is
Precious to me
Then I shall be free.”

The dog is watching me from the chair with its head on one side.

Love you Babe.