Saturday 1st December


A peach ribbon of stain describes an horizon beneath a watercolour sky
of subtle greys, A frost so thick you exclaimed,
“Wow! Its snowed!”
A pile of guitars from last night’s rehearsing, trying to get my fingers around
someone else’s parts. The shapes make no sense, they sprang out’ve other
muscles, other influences, other stories, other journeys. I learn them, walk
away & when I return they’re almost as foreign to me as the first time, but
I remember this feeling, it’s just a cheap show of obstinacy a rebellion in
my head that wants to wave it’s flag before the inevitable.
The fingers have minds of their own & will learn to play all by themselves,
so the voice can eventually come back out to play.