that. what is not.
lying here in the hours before sunrise as i so often do now, woken again by the strangest of dreams vivid enough that closing my eyes seems on (un)balance to be a risky option, the mind is a-whirr with random thoughts, ideas and the odd out of reach celebratory whim. if only i could remember half of these silent conversations kept tightly reigned so as not to disturb the loving human and loving feline draped either side of this motionless wreckage. it’s probably no help my eyeballs are still on edge rummaging the ceiling, on duty for any signs of silhouetted movement from this latest unwanted lids-closed episode. so, here i am, released from arms and paws, snores and not-quite snores, grasping for the paragraphs submitted to either a pre-occupied, or ‘leave-me-alone i am actually trying to sleep’ memory. there were brief monologues on the exceptional debut album from the duke spirit’s leila moss but for now all that’s breaking through is that love of her use of the word firmament! i shall get back to this and embellish on a nine word review of my name is safe in your mouth soon. a tweet i saw yesterday did make me think of the whole idea of writing about music and had been rolling around this headspace for much of the day. i’d concluded that on some level there is still room for individual roles to play in disseminating thoughts, despite the prevalence of overflowing information, but it’s the need, or rather the perceived need, i had really been mulling over. there are many large-scale websites and thankfully a sprinkling of physical magazines funded by ads and subscriptions which serve the major (actual) record-buying population. breaking into this enclave without a high degree of funding i would say is impossible. so what of the little fish? a hobby, recreational sideline for the truly passionate, or more? those of us who love what we hear, what we read and see and find some kind of outlet putting pen to paper and/or finger to keys, what exactly are we doing this for though? the viewer? the subject matter’s creator or the figure looking back in the mirror? publishing always filled me with joy. knowing that 3000 individuals actually wanted to purchase the final music from the empty quarter, a magazine with a small degree of advertising and subs but overall a ship steered by a captain who had no real clue of navigating the sneaky, scissor-filled industry waters. despite this it worked for all sides; providers, consumers and everywhere in, around and in between. but that was a different time. the main aim was to inform, and it did. and it did so with a quality too. pre-internet days allowed this, provided one put the effort in. and i did, in spades. with the help of a circle of wonderful friendships and ever-growing contact book of like-minded artists, bands, labels and distributors. now though, who needs this? who needs a phone line, other than for broadband ones and zeroes? the depressing conclusion (and that’s a state of being i am so very well aware, though yet to find the triggered route) is hardly anyone. other than for ourselves. i personally need to do this - especially right now - but the realisation is for all and none is for me. if another takes something, anything, if they actually buy a record written of here then that sparks elation. for me and I hope the maker. i can’t be bothered trying to hawk my writing elsewhere anymore. positive contacts ultimately lead to silence and first contacts remain unanswered, which is especially galling when said contacts sell bugger all compared to mfteq! but that was then and this is now. i’m too worldly now to be sharp and bittered. i shall be happy in the knowledge some will spend their time here. some of this earth’s loveliest creators will actually be thankful, like and share. thankful for you for reading! art and music, the cobbling of words is my life, whether that’s your work or mine. i will always share your life if i can find the right words, i will always try to steer others toward you. but, i do know and accept now, there really is no need for this, other than for me. here are my boxes of work, old and new, filing loves and inspirations, old and new, and just as my eyes looked into the shadowed nooks and crannies this morning, their lids remain unsealed. i have absolutely no idea if this rambling chunk of words are the ones which kept me from that dark place (what is not) but they make sense in this moment.
a mote of dust [… means everything and the right words shall arrive soon…] audiac so waltz : black tape for a blue girl to touch the milky way : chris connelly and michael begg new town nocturnes : ben chatwin staccato signals/drone signals cuts a slow decay : peter hope and charlie collins post industrial forgery : kathryn joseph from when i wake the want is : low double negative : lycia in flickers : leila moss my name is safe in your mouth [enthralling debut solo. rhythm deep breaths and big BIG tunes. colourful, stunning] rivulets in our circle