where art collides

I am laid back on the sofa near the fire listening to Pink Floyd. In my own little world. This music is so near to perfection that I want to write the equivalent of it in prose, or poetry. Words should be able to take me away in the same way that the music does. There is no reason why words alone can’t anaesthetise. Carry.

Our family tonight has become the ultimate technology victim. Anne is sat on the floor inserting leaflets into “Target” newspapers whilst watching some TV programme on the iPad and listening through earphones.  We are in our own zones. There is no need to talk to each other. Each other’s presence is enough. The kids are elsewhere.

No great words from  me though. Just meanderings. As the log fire dances slowly its warmth gently permeates.

Nothing that is on the TV attracts me. It strikes me that talented as some of these programme makers must be we can surely have nothing in common.

I saw a man in an orange high viz top

He looked as if he was picking up rubbish

He picked up a cigarette stub, studied it and slipped it in his pocket

I gagged

Jaunty jazz-filled airwaves at Café Guzel. Not many customers but it is after 9am and they should all be at work. I can see them striding purposefully by outside, well wrapped up against the zero degrees first day in February. The café is comfortable and its walls are covered in fifties and sixties movie memorabilia together with souvenir number plates from the far side of the Atlantic.

I am facing the big front windows but behind me I can hear café-like activity. Frying, clanking dishes and the banter in another language between the chef and waitress.

The music has stopped and I can now hear the traffic and what sounds like the moan of the wind outside though it may be the beginning of the next track! I have a few more minutes before I need to head off for my meeting.

Occasionally the door opens and someone else enters. Good morning…

There was a dead fox in the road. It was perfectly formed, although obviously being dead was a slight imperfection. I only saw it for a moment as I drove past. I looked at it. The fox did not look back. I was quickly by and the dead fox disappeared into memory.

One wore a short green topcoat with large green buttons, a pair of blue jeans and sensible shoes. The other was similarly attired with a black and white hounds tooth top and a black beret. Not “with it” but not “without it”.

They were slim. Greying hair.

Their faces betrayed them, more appropriate to the old east end, a talk with a fag over the back fence whilst they hung out the washing. There was nothing out of place about them. They were of this time. It’s just that their craggy faces were not.

“It’s a good job I’m skinny” said one to the other as she sat down next to someone else sat opposite me. He didn’t look that big. It’s all about attitude.

Neither wore a wedding ring. I wondered if they were partners. Certainly friends. Get on!

JazzFM is on in the background. I’m on my third glass of wine. Quite a nice 2007 Rioja. I am relaxed.

A boy strides up and down discussing attitudes to disease in the 19th century.

I recognise some of the tunes. It adds to the warm and comfortable feeling.

Looking around I notice the colours in the kitchen. Black contrasts with oak. Green tablecloths with the rich red of the wine. The lights are reflected in the deep black windows.

A double base plucks its resonance and the hi hat intermingles with strokes on the piano.

Household noises don’t interrupt. A football match is about to begin in another room. A debate on medical discoveries continues; single sided.

A Spanish guitar has replaced the piano. I picture myself playing it. Removing my spectacles, eyes closed, my mind wanders off to a cellar bar in Andalucia. Communication is unnecessary.

An evening meal enters the room, shakes a saucepan and greets us. The trance is broken.

nothing to hear

A small boy taps his feet. No words are said, the only sound the quiet pad of foot on floor. He is engrossed, mind focussed on the ethereal conversation on the screen in front of him.

The tapping stops, feet now up on the settee. A silent keyboard makes no noise though it must be kept busy.

The peace is short lived. His mother comes in and chases him upstairs to bed.