There was once a magazine with a face on it. Not just any face, you see, 'cause this face was quite beautiful. Sad, mysterious, lost and all that business, you know, all that jazz. The curly, disheveled hair intrigued me. The dark eyes were dark globes, and the face was asking, "Wouldn't you miss me?", but I didn't know this was the question being asked of me at the time. Now, of course, I realize that this face was asking if I'd miss him 10 years on. The face transcended time I tell you. It weaved through the wondering years with me: a pocketbook companion for a musical soul. My uncle Von Frederick lent me this dandy of a magazine. Methinks it was pre-ordained by God: a bona fide deus ex machina, if you will. (Christ, I used more Latin there than I have in the last 5 years combined.) It was meant for me, and I for it. It was written in the stars, as it were.
Who was this fellow with the dark globes for eyes and medusa-like curls? Why, it was The Floydian Syd Barrett--the imperfect flower. He whispered to me something inaudible. And I said, "What's this that you say?" Syd replied, "I never lied to you." To which I said, "I'm sorry to be harsh, but we've never met Mr. Syd." "Of course we haven't, you twat, I've lived alone for the better part of 30 years in me mum's house. That was the name of one of my songs. I was in Pink Floyd" "No need to call me a twat, I'm a 13 years old, Mr. Syd. And I have listened to Pink Floyd as long as I can remember," I said. Syd looked down and then whispered, "Sorry, people think I'm crazy, so I'm a bit irritable. As for Pink Floyd, you've never heard the songs that I wrote. But, you will some day."
I nodded obediently.
I looked into his globes and said, "Don't worry, Mr. Syd, I know you're not crazy, you're just a wild flower who was tired of the music.... no worries."
Syd smiled and said, "I've been painting since I left the music." "Oh really?" I said, "That's wonderful."
Syd went on to tell me that many of the major works of art from 1975 on were actually his works, and that in fact he hadn't been all that absent from the public eye. You know Jean-Michel Basquiat, the black artist with similar medusa-like hair? Well, that was actually Syd. He simply painted himself black so people wouldn't recognize him. I had a grand laugh at that one.
He also related how he had developed diabetes and he feared his time on this planet was growing shorter. I cried a bit and said, "No, Syd, you're just a beautiful flower that never quite blossomed. You can blossom still!"
Syd paused and then parted with, "I go to blossom in the gloom."
And with that... he vanished, and I played a merry air.
