This is the 35th (Maybe) post of my blog. Not necessarily the sort of number that one usually celebrates and perhaps this is not a celebration. When I post something I write some words. That’s writing but not really what I’d call memorable writing. Once upon a time I used to write more. I wrote short prose pieces generally but some longer ones. I don’t think that anything I wrote had much merit. I’ve read a lot and generally know if something’s good or not. To be creative first of all you need to have good taste. Of course it’s impossible to say exactly what constitutes good taste. There’s nothing to prove really and anyway what does it matter? The proof is in the pudding as they say and different people like different puddings. Longevity should be the only proof and sometimes perhaps longevity is for some quirky reason while things with great value are lost like buried treasure never to be found.
So this is an ideal place for me to preserve some of my old prose writing. If there is anything half-decent it is very derivative. Below is an example dating from the 70s. As moths are central to the piece I also include a demo I did of a song of mine called 5 Dead Songs which I recorded in 2007 I think. Part of the first verse goes
breadcrumbs and kings
and moths and things
it is a fragment from another song which I think is called Possibly Somewhere In Between and which is one of the 5 songs referred to in the title. The demo is a home recording so the quality isn’t great. I was drinking while working on the recording (probably vodka) and by the time I came to sing the lyrics I was quite pissed and you can hear that fairly clearly. It certainly sounds to me that I was more drunk than I’ve ever been when recording my voice.
AN EVENING’S STROLL
I stepped outside this evening to find the air full of moths. As I walked down the street hundreds brushed into me, some pausing on a part of my body, others simply bouncing along until they eventually regained their course.
I turned to a passing stranger and said, “Is this not a hindrance?”
“Sir,” he replied, “it was just so that night. The night Claudia left me. We had quarreled. I had vilified her mother, she had lost her temper and had stormed out of the house. I just let her go. Then I realised what it meant for me – to be alone like that. I ran out into the street, but it was just like this – thousands of moths – as I ran I swallowed them, they got in my eyes, even up my nose. I tore at them, I was completely lost in what seemed like a blizzard of moths. And I never found her. I’ve searched in all the cities of the world – nay in every town almost. I let her go. I was mad. And now it’s like that evening again – all these moths. Just like it was then.”
And he walked off into the night – leaving me as I stood there, pensively on the pavement, slowly picking the moths from my hair.
5 Dead Songs