Reflection upon an Easter Age matter.
It is cold wet and april. Easter. But old work lines the halls. That is work done during 2009. Work half finished. Abandoned. Waiting to print or revise. Bundled together. Wet papers never drying. A drift of sorts.From where to where. I should know by now. And maybe I do. These little spaces still have to wait but incompleteness has attractions of its own. And so it goes. Maybe for now this is how it is. An old english patterned soppiness on the heels of a century that no longer resembles my own. Ive been playing either very old or very early or the very best records the Beatles made and turning the volume off on any broadcasts that cover the coming pantomime known as the British General Election. Newsnight continues to smell like the lost sock.
Bedroom posters covered the walls and tops of tables where the Count lay dying . His splashed yellow and reds still wet and dripping as Guinivere dusted the book cabinet.
‘Oh say can you see’, she coninued ‘that which I can see ‘, and his eyes moved slowly in his strained sockets at the ceiling as he worried his lower lip with a stained tooth. This used to be where the work got made. This used to be where he played the harpsichord and drew smutty pictures for his own pleasure . All gone. All destroyed . A wayward missile measured the inches to pages and pages of flesh and bones and exploded.
The world contined to hear Guiniver and Guiniver only . And . From the trees small stars winked at the room and pitied the small paintings with woody photons smelling faintly of citrous.
Others were to follow. Mostly about Fresh Air and The World in the Fresh Air and all thats in it. While thinking about it the boy watched the Tyger video of the band singing Friends. A piece of music that only Martin Koerner had ever heard of. Because Martin has listed to pretty much everything and doesn’t sleep . Barely time for breath if you’re Martin . Or anythhing else come to that. Like – barely time to promote your own material eh Martin ?
recently scribbled into the blog
- First Person Singular Sunday. Maybe Monday. It depends on how you look at it but that's where I am. Sunday . Or Monday. Work - pictures are made , water drunk - nothing more interesting , and music has been listened to. Why not mention some of the music played this weekend ? I have amused and confused friends by raving about Polly Harvey this week. Confused them by referring to her in conversation as Polly rather than PJ . Whose Polly Barry ? From Compton ? I'll google her . If anybody has played Dry or Rid of Me this weekend I'd like to meet them. Astonishing artworks that have new truths and imaginative twists with an old art form that sound totally present and worthwhile . And even better memorable as performances with some very fine playing through out both on guitars and percussion. Should it surprise me that a West Country Girl can take an old artform and bend it perfectly to her own time and experience ? Probably not. There is so much more to do in these little electric spaces . I really do hope that this is an important start to the summer.
- Time Marches On and nerves and nail tearing won a January posting competition. Silly really but still. Now, here we are again practising with the administration toys and expecting some Sunday night Midnight Horror to the sound of an old 'Stones' track. Sympathy for the Devil I expect. Of course I'd rather watch the hockey. I've never watched before but any old excuse and after all, it is the final. Even If i never spot the Puck. Which must be a large part of the thing. You say I digress. Sorry. Sighs. Publish and be Doomed. Prisca says 'what could go wrong?' Lots.
- December Embers A remembered December ember retouched for the new year remains. More on this much much later. But now a quick dust around an old type face. A spot of font mopping and ascender fondling. Seasonal and mature like scribblebibs. Does this font make my b*m look big? No? Sure? Good. Thankyou. Happy New Year Prisca and Nick.