THE LOST NINE:

Shake, shake, shake, whistling sun, wipe the spoon.
The message failed, the broken wheel, the pages turn.
You run away into the City, heat get hotter, sit back,
let the honey drip. Fingers dance, trip, trip, grip
the laughing paper cup.

(K)

THE SANCTUARY:

Diverted into the sanctuary of the morning cafe, latin beats,
the shuffling of the elder statesmen of groove, inspired by
the memory of seeing the Buena Vista live, the grace & cool
of masters who perfected the skill of moving across a stage
like sexy angels, old boys with more youth in their linen suits
than lumbering frontmen 20 years younger. I remember watching
open mouthed, the grandmothers of Seville dance flamenco with
curvaceous gyrations, wishing I could move that good. I’m sat
at this table, my table, my morning sanctuary, taking good
orderly direction from the sound system, pen, paper, porridge
& tea, plugged into the electricity of groove & calm.

(K)

IN THE STUDIO WITH RICK:

Head mashed out in the world of jetlagged, time tabled, scheduled,
wall-to-wall, none stop, sleepless, relentlessism. Being in the
studio is the only peaceful place.

(K)

ESSEX IN THE RAIN:

Smells sweet & birdsong, sends me to bed at 5:00am numb from typing.
Working on this book, a story of sorts, a truth, pictures & words.
The jetlag returns but I like the way the house sounds with
everyone asleep, clicking, settling on it’s bones. Shuffling between
the lap top & kettle, skimming the local paper to rest the brain.
Though I haven’t liked lying in ever since I got sober I’m
learning to roll with it, hoping I can get something close to
‘awake’ in time to be with Rick in the studio tomorrow. fell asleep
at the wheel for a split second twice yesterday, snapped awake just
in time to avoid ditching the car, got to stay off the road till
I wake up enough, wondering how many others drive like this.
I love to type, it chills me out, breaking to sit on the back porch
with black tea in the rain, call Dad, the sound of his voice is good,
he’s checking out some wild new Tele Tubby service station over in
the West, tells me about the film scores of Mischa Bakaleinikoff.
We love the sound of the rain.

(K)

VIOLENCE RAGING VIOLENCE THEN SILENCE:

Drove North to Harlow for the last day of the Hunt & Darton
pop-up cafe. This is the third one I’ve experienced, ‘Austerity Day’
today, a different vibe in the art cafe to Manchester in the rain &
Colchester in winter sun. I love what they do, makes me smile,
spirit rise, people chuckle, bemused, levitate, a welcome turn of
events.
If you get the chance, check out their brilliant Cafe’s, currently
popping up in China, next stop the Edinburgh Fringe – every town
should have one!

(K)å

THE GOOD DOCTOR:

Up half the night walking, in the bedroom, in the kitchen,
in the garden before sunrise in the silent minutes before
the world wakes, when it stops breathing. Birdsong, breeze,
the sound of our tired feet shuffling to ease a pain that
keeps sleep at bay, though I wish it was all mine & not
yours. The night line Dr reaches out a soothing hand with
the name of my childhood hero, a man who listens, responding
with a gentle intelligence that makes us feel ok.

(K)

THE MAGAZINE MAN:

Dimitri runs the magazine stand on the corner of Sherwood &
Fairfax, talks to stars who stop & buy. Used to be an air steward,
came to London in ’77, said the people there were lovely to him &
his wife. He sits at a table, waiting for customers, lap top propped
up on magazines, wiling away the days watching the small screen in
tinsel town, a tiny rack of cigarettes at his back between the high
gloss covers of his printed flock, waits long after dark for passing
trade. Dimitri thinks Timothy Spall is a good guy, always stops to
talk when he’s in town, some stars don’t, they like to remain above
the clouds, but some return to Earth & Dimitri says Timothy is one.
I’m glad, ’cause I always liked his acting, never let me down,
good to know he’s the real deal, like a stick of Blackpool rock.

So, we bought two magazines & stopped to shoot the breeze, shook
his hand, it was big & rough, strong as an iron glove, a kind light
in his eyes. Bought an out’ve season copy of Raw Vision, my favourite
art publication, that kindred outsider emotion connection.
We bought two, he gave us one for free, so we gave him our names
for safe keeping. Dimitri smiled & waved, said he hoped we’d be back,
we told him we would & when we do we’ll drop in to see him like
Timothy Spall.

(K)

ESSEX ACHIEVED:

Showered off the sky, drove between the fields, feel the energy
behind the wheel, corns & barleys lush & green, nodding fat heads
of seed in a gentle wind, windows down, elbow on the sill,
shopped for essentials to get us by & dined on beans on toast,
simple food re-connecting us with childhood memories of home.

(K)

FROM LA TO ESSEX WITH LOVE:

Cruising in LA, beaten by the rays all the way to Venice,
muscle boy poetry, long board, fat tire low riders bikini
cyclers. I found the shade of a street palm, made out I was
texting, got it all down in my little black book, sing on the
flip side back in Essex. Get the kettle on, we’re coming home!

(K)

HOW WAS IT?:

Fabulous

(K)