Lying on your sofa, my legs bent question marks, all the potential arguments collecting in my head, forming a full stop, dripping from my finger to the ashtray by the phone…The hesistant reach towards the past which is a television screen, or more accurately a mirror, the image drawn with pencil and through tracing paper…The motif for the current mood is “that which is tangible”.
Southern Crescent is unusual, in that the houses and the people do not comfortably fit within the surroundings, although the nature of development around that area would point to the newer houses not fitting in to the existing lives. Indeed the larger detached houses are the more evocative for memory and mood; they suggest cold lemonade, and the scent of lamb, or chicken, and the sound of acceptable if bland music (no guitar solos). The newer houses are from the post-war period, are terraced, gardens but no plants, meeting places for cats. Dog turd on the paving slabs like disgarded socks in a bedroom. Possibly their own bedrooms. Musical letterboxes play ‘Morning Has Broken’, although the battery is almost dry: the sound is dischordent and broken.
Other issues flitter through the mind, but do not draw words towards the fingers. My hands rest above the keyboard as though unable to press the keys without clear and consice instructions. Matters of the heart and mind, nothing to shatter the earth. Just the background noise, occasionaly lifting the pages of a diary I largely ignore, reminding me of the music once made. A lonely symphony drawn from memory, left in the darkness hiding from the brightest of lights.