"You know....it's EVIL out there."
He wasn't sure himself if he was referring to the weather, the hard lashing of rain mozaicing down the coffee shop window, or something altogether more colourless.
He looked directly at her across the table. Her front two teeth peeped out from under her top lip and sat awkwardly on the cushion of her bottom one as she half smiled. He could tell she was trying her best, so softened a little.
"Out there, you know - I don't like it. It's full of them. Look...." He traced his finger across the glass, mapping trajectories of people as they walked from right to left, towards, away - a cluster of lines streaked in the condensation on the window. A history of journeys, messy, random - urban.
"It takes everything I am to come in here, but the coffee is good. Look at them all. I don't know where they're going - what does it mean do you think? Why do they all look the same, and dress the same? Why do none of them look happy? Why are they all so - disappointing..."
Again her looked at her, and she again half smiled. Her eyes were big. Really big. A round face framed by a sleek bob that was chestnut - once - and a haunting jawline.
"You don't say much, do you?" He realised that maybe she couldn't.
The door of the coffee shop swung open. A man and a woman walked in, epileptically shaking the rain off their shoulders and laughing. They - were them. The woman slid into a booth and flirted a smile at the man who went to order their coffee, in doing so, making sure her skirt was just that little bit too high up her thigh as she crossed her legs to face him.
It takes everything I am to come in here.
Heads began turning. Starting at the errant end of the coffee shop, whistling through a half turn to the entrance and stalling somewhere in the middle, only to be kickstarted by another chance comment which set the circle in motion again. Somehow within this violent sense of rhythm he knew people were staring. It didn't bother him, or make him perspire, not even when his hands began to tremble or his feet stuttering as he tried to stand up.
"Are you okay? Sir?"
The big eyes of the coffee girl blinked high and wide as she swept a lock of chestnut hair over her ear and peppered him with broken English. No semblance of her face stuck to his memory. Behind her was a mirror. He saw nothing but a blinding white light where his shape should have been. A moment of pure clarity. She was never here when I needed her.
He pulled out a scrunched twenty from his pocket, balancing himself with his other hand on the cold formica table.
"I've just got to get out for a while...get some air...."
He was aware a sliver of blood was trailing from his nose, also aware that the mischevious couple were no longer flirting, only gawping.
"Are you sure Sir?"
Again the broken English. Again the image of her naked and beneath him. It lolled in his head and shifted from side to side like a counter weight. No, no, no.....
"I'll be fine once I get some air. I just need....to....disappear...."
He hugged himself, his sleeves riding up to reveal slender forearms. Turning without retrieving his jacket from the back of his chair, he ran out of the shop into the rain - a streak on the window, lost in the random.
He recalled the words from the letter as he swallowed miles of the charcoal motorway in front of him. Was it late in the night or early in the morning? He couldn't tell.
What's it like being you?
A small question, an afterthought of a question. Yet one he couldn't answer.
I hope you're happy and healthy, and I promise I won't leave it so long next time!
All my love,
Axx
Was it really three years ago? How could it be?
He remembered this place from his childhood, but now it looked so much more ominous. The beach he remembered lay maybe two hundred feet beneath him, strewn across the sea like damp muslin. The beach he remembered as a four year old. The tide had been out that day, and gasping starfish lay half buried in the wash. There had been a small boat too - a fishing vessel perhaps - lodged sideways on in the sand. Funny how it came back to him. It was perhaps the first memory of a time before now, of a time when her hair started to change from satin to steel wire. The night made it somehow more romantic, like a scene from someone else's life.
What's it like being you?
The words seemed to run off the yellowing notepaper to meet him. Substantially more different than it had been eight short hours ago. Lassooed, the arms of the sea before him sparkled under the sick moon, and all seemed to fit in its rightful place. Diseased blood in his thin body rose to the surface as he began to undress, folding them into a neat pile. Placing them on the still warm bonnet of his car, he took five steps forward.
It takes everything I am to come in here.
Closing his eyes, he took another five steps forward, but only managed three as the ground disappeared beneath him.
What's
it
like
being
you....?
Gasping starfish. Stars fell.
www.soundcloud.com/amartaproject
The burblings and thoughts of being an electronic musician, producer, and nerd in general.
Amarta Project
Beyond The Lines, Beyond The Sea
Thursday 25 November 2010
Thursday 18 November 2010
Days Like This
Today's listening - "Le Nocturne De Lumiere" by BT.
"Sparkling..."
The child pointed upwards at the heavily illuminated ceiling full of Christmas lights.
"Look...!"
Her mother was far too consumed by the clothing rail in front of her to acknowledge this small moment of wonder in her child's life. Lifting another garment from the rack, she perused it - running her right hand down the side of the dress slowly and tenderly from shoulder to hemline. Shifting her hips and switching the dress from left to right to gain another vantage point, the light changed with the angle. Again the slow stroke down the line of the dress - and a shake to flick out the crumple from the rail. Her daughter twisted in her buggy, and gasped with a little exasperation. Thrust her hips upwards. A movement that half suggested a half thought, of half freedom. A dash for the wire. If I go now, she won't notice. The thought seemed to dissipate as quickly as it came however, as another Stepford mother and buggy combo slid in the shop entrance beside her. As if tapped on the cheek, the little girl shouldered herself round to look at her new distraction. A little boy of about the same age, a bunch of brown curls tucked under a Baby Gap beanie. There was no exchange, other than a swapping of vacant thousand yarders which seemed to say Your mum shopping too then? We could be here a while you know - do you have sweets? She pointed up at the lights again, looking at him.
He wasn't interested.
Her mother was a short slim woman, raven black dyed hair scraped back into an Essex facelift, snub nosed and square jawed. She wanted to be younger than she was. Her palour was cold and malnourished, coffee and cigarettes having sucked all colour inwards. The tracksuit was unseasonal for the time of year, an off white tone that suggested her washes were not hot enough. The caressing of the dress continued, with a quizzical look. Can I afford it? Will it suit me? WHY can't I afford it?
She would have looked awesome. A good conditioner, some make up to hide the tiny red pocks around the nub of her chin, a hearty meal. Her daughter winged, and as a knee jerk her lips pursed into a sssshhhhhhh.
With a look of resignment, she hooked the dress from the rail, placed it lovingly over her arm and grasped the horns of the buggy. Twisting towards the till, her daughter looked surprised at the sudden movement. We going then?
Small moments later, they smoothed out of the shop, purchase hanging on the handle of the buggy. The little girl looked excited, and pointed up at the lights again.
Look!
I know, pretty aren't they?
Yaa!
Mum looked left, but turned right. As her head swept round she caught my gaze. I smiled a pathetic unthoughtful smile, more on the inside than on the out, but enough for her to notice. She cast me a look that was as icy as a bell ringing. I looked down at her waist. It was tiny and snake-like. Soon lost in the haze of movement, they disappeared.
She will soon be at a party, wearing her dress. She will dance, and she will laugh. She will drink too much, but she will be happy. She will be sitting at the end of the night on a chair or a doorstep, unable to move - pointing up at the Christmas lights in an awestruck gesture, and no one will acknowledge her.
But, that doesn't matter.
I stood up, and blinked to clear my eyes.
www.soundcloud.com/amartaproject
"Sparkling..."
The child pointed upwards at the heavily illuminated ceiling full of Christmas lights.
"Look...!"
Her mother was far too consumed by the clothing rail in front of her to acknowledge this small moment of wonder in her child's life. Lifting another garment from the rack, she perused it - running her right hand down the side of the dress slowly and tenderly from shoulder to hemline. Shifting her hips and switching the dress from left to right to gain another vantage point, the light changed with the angle. Again the slow stroke down the line of the dress - and a shake to flick out the crumple from the rail. Her daughter twisted in her buggy, and gasped with a little exasperation. Thrust her hips upwards. A movement that half suggested a half thought, of half freedom. A dash for the wire. If I go now, she won't notice. The thought seemed to dissipate as quickly as it came however, as another Stepford mother and buggy combo slid in the shop entrance beside her. As if tapped on the cheek, the little girl shouldered herself round to look at her new distraction. A little boy of about the same age, a bunch of brown curls tucked under a Baby Gap beanie. There was no exchange, other than a swapping of vacant thousand yarders which seemed to say Your mum shopping too then? We could be here a while you know - do you have sweets? She pointed up at the lights again, looking at him.
He wasn't interested.
Her mother was a short slim woman, raven black dyed hair scraped back into an Essex facelift, snub nosed and square jawed. She wanted to be younger than she was. Her palour was cold and malnourished, coffee and cigarettes having sucked all colour inwards. The tracksuit was unseasonal for the time of year, an off white tone that suggested her washes were not hot enough. The caressing of the dress continued, with a quizzical look. Can I afford it? Will it suit me? WHY can't I afford it?
She would have looked awesome. A good conditioner, some make up to hide the tiny red pocks around the nub of her chin, a hearty meal. Her daughter winged, and as a knee jerk her lips pursed into a sssshhhhhhh.
With a look of resignment, she hooked the dress from the rail, placed it lovingly over her arm and grasped the horns of the buggy. Twisting towards the till, her daughter looked surprised at the sudden movement. We going then?
Small moments later, they smoothed out of the shop, purchase hanging on the handle of the buggy. The little girl looked excited, and pointed up at the lights again.
Look!
I know, pretty aren't they?
Yaa!
Mum looked left, but turned right. As her head swept round she caught my gaze. I smiled a pathetic unthoughtful smile, more on the inside than on the out, but enough for her to notice. She cast me a look that was as icy as a bell ringing. I looked down at her waist. It was tiny and snake-like. Soon lost in the haze of movement, they disappeared.
She will soon be at a party, wearing her dress. She will dance, and she will laugh. She will drink too much, but she will be happy. She will be sitting at the end of the night on a chair or a doorstep, unable to move - pointing up at the Christmas lights in an awestruck gesture, and no one will acknowledge her.
But, that doesn't matter.
I stood up, and blinked to clear my eyes.
www.soundcloud.com/amartaproject
Thursday 4 November 2010
Thursday. The ones that got away, and the ones that haven't arrived yet.
Today's listening - "FML" by Deadmau5.
Song titles, are kinda funny.
Evocation of an emotion or a feeling, a memory - can come from a million places. Every time I drive to my local Argos Superstore I think of sperm donors.
Okay, let me qualify that.
On my way there about 4 years ago I was listening to the radio in the car. I swept into the car park, taking the short cut through the bays to avoid the herculean chassis juddering speed bumps. The show on the radio was talking about sperm donation - the ethics, the pros, cons etc. and for some reason, it stuck in my head. Now I cannot fail to drive there, taking the same route through the car park, without thinking of, well - ya know.
Often, after this inappropriate flagstone of an idea was cemented in my head, I have parked up and wandered towards one or more of the three stores (it's a small retail park - a retail patch if you will) thinking about the process of sperm donation. Do you have to fill the pot? Do you get paid by the cc? Do they provide gentlemen's magazines to help the process along? Do the cubicles get sprayed down with spermicide afterwards to appease H&S?
"Thank you sir, your item will be with you in about 5 minutes - please go to your collection point."
I fully expect to be handed a pot and a wet wipe.
Same with song titles, they can make or break a tune. Take "Imagine" for example. Great song, shit title. It's - ironically - unimaginative. "Bat Out Of Hell" by Meatloaf? Totally different story. AMAZING song title. Works on two, unique and key levels. One, it supplants and underlines the energy of rebellion and having just plain damn enough of your situation...."Like a bat out of hell I'll be gone when the morning comes..." It's catchy, memorable and does everything a pop lyric should do. Two, it references the Greek playwright Aristophanes 414 BC work entitled "The Birds." In it is what is believed to be the first reference to a "Bat Out of Hell";
'Near by the land of the Sciapodes there is a marsh, from the borders whereof the unwashed Socrates evokes the souls of men. Pisander came one day to see his soul, which he had left there when still alive. He offered a little victim, a camel, slit his throat and, following the example of Odysseus, stepped one pace backwards. Then that bat of a Chaerephon came up from hell to drink the camel's blood.'
Two levels, the veneer - and the groundwork of creating the veneer, the bones, the inspiration. The evocation of a memory in the writer of a text, a picture, a thought, a process which stuck. Amazing and beautiful.
Although, quite what Meatloaf was thinking when he came up with "In the Land of the Pig, the Butcher is King" I haven't a fucking clue.
You know sometimes, you have to read a song before you listen to it. Max the experience. As a parent to be names their child after due care, thought and love, such is with songwriters - the good ones anyway.
As a footnote, here are some titles I will never give to my works, and songs I will never write It would just be wrong.
"Muffin Top"
"Gone Kidding"
"Your Love is Scrunchy"
"There's Always Someone (Who Wants to Pour Sand in Your Pants)"
"In The Bushes"
"Of All The People"
"Stains"
"I Am What I Am And I Will Survive"
"Twitter Me"
"How Much Did You Pay To Get Your Face That Way"
"Don't Touch That It's Sore"
"Gone In 30 Seconds"
And finally...
"Spunk Donor."
www.soundcloud.com/amartaproject
Song titles, are kinda funny.
Evocation of an emotion or a feeling, a memory - can come from a million places. Every time I drive to my local Argos Superstore I think of sperm donors.
Okay, let me qualify that.
On my way there about 4 years ago I was listening to the radio in the car. I swept into the car park, taking the short cut through the bays to avoid the herculean chassis juddering speed bumps. The show on the radio was talking about sperm donation - the ethics, the pros, cons etc. and for some reason, it stuck in my head. Now I cannot fail to drive there, taking the same route through the car park, without thinking of, well - ya know.
Often, after this inappropriate flagstone of an idea was cemented in my head, I have parked up and wandered towards one or more of the three stores (it's a small retail park - a retail patch if you will) thinking about the process of sperm donation. Do you have to fill the pot? Do you get paid by the cc? Do they provide gentlemen's magazines to help the process along? Do the cubicles get sprayed down with spermicide afterwards to appease H&S?
"Thank you sir, your item will be with you in about 5 minutes - please go to your collection point."
I fully expect to be handed a pot and a wet wipe.
Same with song titles, they can make or break a tune. Take "Imagine" for example. Great song, shit title. It's - ironically - unimaginative. "Bat Out Of Hell" by Meatloaf? Totally different story. AMAZING song title. Works on two, unique and key levels. One, it supplants and underlines the energy of rebellion and having just plain damn enough of your situation...."Like a bat out of hell I'll be gone when the morning comes..." It's catchy, memorable and does everything a pop lyric should do. Two, it references the Greek playwright Aristophanes 414 BC work entitled "The Birds." In it is what is believed to be the first reference to a "Bat Out of Hell";
'Near by the land of the Sciapodes there is a marsh, from the borders whereof the unwashed Socrates evokes the souls of men. Pisander came one day to see his soul, which he had left there when still alive. He offered a little victim, a camel, slit his throat and, following the example of Odysseus, stepped one pace backwards. Then that bat of a Chaerephon came up from hell to drink the camel's blood.'
Two levels, the veneer - and the groundwork of creating the veneer, the bones, the inspiration. The evocation of a memory in the writer of a text, a picture, a thought, a process which stuck. Amazing and beautiful.
Although, quite what Meatloaf was thinking when he came up with "In the Land of the Pig, the Butcher is King" I haven't a fucking clue.
You know sometimes, you have to read a song before you listen to it. Max the experience. As a parent to be names their child after due care, thought and love, such is with songwriters - the good ones anyway.
As a footnote, here are some titles I will never give to my works, and songs I will never write It would just be wrong.
"Muffin Top"
"Gone Kidding"
"Your Love is Scrunchy"
"There's Always Someone (Who Wants to Pour Sand in Your Pants)"
"In The Bushes"
"Of All The People"
"Stains"
"I Am What I Am And I Will Survive"
"Twitter Me"
"How Much Did You Pay To Get Your Face That Way"
"Don't Touch That It's Sore"
"Gone In 30 Seconds"
And finally...
"Spunk Donor."
www.soundcloud.com/amartaproject
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