I don’t know what to say to you today.
SO, FRIDAY, WHAT?:
Yeah, too busy rattling around in this head to notice
Friday slipping away. I woke up with that familiar
noise between the ears & a pressure I recognised as
frustration with myself. So I drove, parked, took a
walk, breathed & looked around. I let my eyes & my feet
drift & didn’t question time or direction & slowly
this tension slid off me, focus returned & the feet
brought me back to the studio. You would’ve laughed
at how every machine did it’s own thing, nothing worked
the way I wanted, but I chuckled, slowed down
& nudged forward inch by inch. By the end of the day
I’d amassed recordings that hadn’t existed at breakfast
& no matter if they get used for this record or the next,
they no longer only live inside my head, rattling around,
making that familiar mocking sound.
That’s how come I forgot to write to you & though I’m
sorry to have neglected our packed, it turned out
nice in the end…
DAYS OF LESS THAN:
Magpie at the window, looks in, siren passing in the street.
Fingerprints on glass, days of fear & London. License, license,
license, dance ’til dawn. Don’t catch the Winter Blues with
your mouth turned down. You look like a tourist, think, breath,
speak, jump, don’t be ‘good’ be ‘brilliant’.
I’m sheltering from the rain in the leigh of a dirty
back street. Across the road, a family does the same,
dressed in out-of-town greys, backs against the wall.
The father & mother are big, not fat, but ‘built’,
all three of their children laughing, shivering, messing
about as young kids do when they’re bored were. By contrast
they’re diminutive, fragile little stick bone people. As I
glance across, waiting for a lyric gem to drop I see father,
a towering mountain of frustration, grab the smallest of
the stick people by her little hood & shake her,
eyeball-to-eyeball in a bar room bruiser square-off.
His rant is muffled by the rain, but I see the little kid is
driven back inside herself as the family stride off down the
street, all the little stick folk follow duck like behind the
Henry Moore physiques of Mom & Dad. Everyone in shades of drab
except the little shaken stick girl, a jewel in the grime of
our back street seclusion in her bright blue anorak, left to
trail along alone at the back, recovering.
Fumbling in a back pocket I fished out today’s ticket, proffered between chicken fajita fingers. Responding to it’s return with my Mother’s customary politeness I was surprised to hear “Thank you” escape me with the voice of my Father & chuckled – it was good to have him so close.
CRACK THE LIGHT:
Light breaks out from cracks between buildings. Red brick streaked with fifties shoot stains, white concrete balcony washing lines. Students lean across tables, to the hiss of Italianesque coffee boilers, exchange excitement, talking French with fat double basses, bagged & struggled through doors in skinny jeans. All the girls are ripped above the knees, curling finger hair, catching their reflections in the black glass eyes of cocktail bars, softening the blow with a promise of ‘art’ where Dali fingers his moustache – flogging anything for money.
A Kestrel dives into a field ditch, pauses, hangs in the air,
adjusting. Underbelly white as the undersides of model
aeroplanes I locked myself away with as a boy, escaping to
meditate in the effluvium of glue & paint. Kestrel suspended
on the wind, tiny sky dart, focused on fractional oscillations,
a flash of yellow where white turns grey as a sea planes wings,
catapulted from the rolling decks of floating cities
We drive, unable to speak, smiling, eyes radiant, wide,
windows down, hairdos abandoned to the wind. It rattles
around us, thrills us, conjuring autumn receipts from
side pockets, shuttles parking tickets along the dashboard,
fluttering, scuttling, stuttering against the windscreen
in black, white, black, white rhythms. Kestrel hesitates,
disturbed by our passing, pulls away, indignation in it’s
thread-needle eye, gives submits to the wind to rise with
delicate skill, trimming it’s wings to arc across vast acres
of parallel lines. Winter seedlings reach up to touch it’s
flight with sweet green tips, rippling in rhythms, bending in
waves at the passing of such fabulous Autumn winds.