Bits and bobs – nonsense thoughts jotted in my notebook. Some may become songs…or not.
There’s only one key ingredient needed to write music. Memories – it all comes back to memories.
Before I sing I silently wait and breathe as they lock themselves back into my skin. Memories that, like you, adventure freely – return alarmingly alive when I place my fingers on the piano.
It’s a delicate process – fusing stolen words with the curve of your smile, the soot in your eyes, the smooth of your brown skin.
Every day she hears an imaginary bell ringing in her ears like an ambulance heralding death. She tiptoes with urgency to the lounge, glances out of the window and stares at the gate. On the right she sees it – small, circular and black; the instrument of her unending torture – the bell.
He calls his mother infrequently. He answers her questions before they can be asked. Answers his mother requires. Answers he does not want repeated aloud. He knows she lurks in a room somewhere.
Secretly she waits for the sound of his boisterous laughter, proof of life, his life – and dives back into her book attempting to blur the guilt from her ears. The call ends with a quiet goodbye and no ‘when are you coming home my son?
She breathes a sign of relief, jumps from her bed and lights a cigarette. He is alive she tells the trees, the small ants crawling on her feet. She inhales deeply and smiles, the bell still ringing in her ears. He is alive.
Someone should write songs about you he said. Songs were delivered to my doorstep once. Upon re-listening she wondered…
Was that how you perceived me lover? Or was this the only way you could to love me – with bright chords the color of flashing screens and words that floated above my body?
Tightrope memories taunt like
Crushed glass in rye
Harem red on snow
And poisoned white oak
Charring my lips