A park full of flames 

Every year, I'm tempted to go to the Brighton Festival - I devour the programme, with its list of acts, events and installations - I imagine myself, in a black jacket, sitting in a louche venue - I can see myself, one of a discerning audience for some Polish chanteuse -

Moreover, Brighton has always been there - part of my life - I can see my ghosts, racing down The Lanes, slipping into the Bath Arms, next to the Friends' Centre - there's Russ, when he still had his hair, wearing his velvet jacket, smoking Balkan Sobranie cigarettes - there's Jay, thinking about Walter Benjamin - there's the Zap Club, where I saw John Cooper Clarke with Richard - every pub was playing Chas and Dave -

So, we went, Anne and I, to see a Circus of Fire in a Brighton Park - we stayed at Maire and Pete's - Pete drove his car with great skill through the dark streets -

We parked outside the park - inside, there were moving sculptures composed of flames - cressets blazed - slender girls in long coats stood under trees, the branches of which were hung with brilliant lights - you could smell kerosene - chinese lanterns rose into the sky like like strange birds -

Crowds of people marvelled along with us at the spectacle - melancholy music sounded over the yellow flames - a man played a guitar - jets of fire lit up his face and the neck of his guitar - I felt that I was in a waking dream -

Later, we repaired to a high ceilinged pub - Pete told us stories about his friend, Largo - a local band played in a corner -

But I was still thinking about the park full of flames - how the everyday can become something rare and wonderful -