One i missed, one i disliked,
although he had presence none the less.
The others i quite enjoyed.
An old friend,
a familiar genre,
and a bassist who would slap just because he could.
But most of all it was the audience.
Not there because of hype,
or even similar taste.
But because the light was dim
and the beer was cold.
My first foray into commissioned sound design, almost. Part of a title sequence for a friend.
As soon as the fasten seatbelt sign was illuminated
she began to speak.
As if the noticeable shift in pitch had suddenly
changed the social situation.
As if on cue.
Without warning she proceeded to inform me
in every imaginable
and excruciating
detail of her travel plans.
The phone call with tears.
The last minute plane ticket that wasn’t cheap.
The messy divorce.
The awful ex-son-in-law-who-never-had-been-right.
How she would never say “I told you so”.
At least not directly.
How this was going to be for the best.
If they could just get through the next few days.
Then, almost as abruptly as before
the seatbelt light went dark and she stood,
straining to to grab her hand luggage from the overhead locker.
All conversation coming to an abrupt and decisive halt.
As if on cue.
It’s all become quite blurred.
Like a dream dreamt earlier this week.
You can remember specifics
and there is definite sense of it happening to you.
But if someone asked you to
measure the exact distance between
the now and the then
you’d probably be lost for words.
Nose hairs don’t care what people think.
They are the least self conscious of body parts.
They’ll happily sit just inside the rim
unnoticed, except by accidental flare.
Stoically taking all the jest we throw at them.
They know full well that once
the middle ages are done and over
they will emerge triumphant
having the last laugh.
I’m vaguely attracted.
Some old connection blurred at best.
A similar glance or an internet blogged crush.
Maybe its just their disinterest.
Either way
that intoxicated, over indulged,
night time halfwit perceives
that the only way to respond
is by similar disinterest.
An endeavour doomed from the start.
He moved forwards. Purposefully placing
both feet between the
small gap in the fold-back.
A pause,
a knowing glance,
a shift in weight towards the crowd.
His figure looming as he
deftly strummed Am7.
I can feel this complexity
fading. Your actions
have opened a door.
Just like the sun
peeking through the curtains.
I can feel the return to
simplicity.
Warm on my face.
The trouble is, when
all is normal, routine in place,
comes the revelation:
complexity is what makes it
interesting.
He Takes the smallest
of concepts. The vaguest
of ideas. He stretches their threads
until all meaning is lost.
I don’t even think he remembers their origin.
Therein lies the frustration.
You could press him and push him.
Force him to divulge.
But there would be no point
He’s gone so far that there is no
meaning left to
ingest.
