Taking down the old photo album and blowing the dust off. Worn brown cover made from pre war cardboard fraying at the corners into brown dust. The smell of Grandpa’s house, damp, tobacco, old wood, and the sound of a ticking clock. Winter nights by the fire with the wind moaning in the chimney. The quietness of the old things, comfortable things, sleeping in corners, not waiting anymore.
Turning the pages and travelling back into summer on the beach, at the pool, walking the promenade.
Wiping the dust off and slipping it back on the high shelf, the memories quietly singing, then silent.
St. Michael Street 1968 and David arrives with Angie, they are both stoned and giggling. I let them hear a Jonny Winter LP I’d brought back from the states, unknown in the UK then. He’s a sort of white Jimmy Hendrix David said. I lent him the LP, never got it back.
Upstairs in the house in Clareville Road, David’s trying out Space Oddity on me, he’ s got this thing he calls a stylophone, sort of weird grating electric sound I think, but the track is great.
Shooting the cover of Space Oddity with David, Calvin Mark Lee, Zin my assistant. I tell David the strobe is as bright as the sun, the ‘Sun Machine’ he and Calvin laugh. Zin looks blank. Then Calvin freaks out because he thinks Zin is himself twenty years ago. Happy days.
"Once Chuang Chou dreamed that he was a butterfly. He fluttered about happily, quite pleased with the state that he was in, and knew nothing about Chuang Chou. Presently he awoke and found that he was very much Chuang Chou again. Now, did Chou dream that he was a butterfly or was the butterfly now dreaming that he was Chou?"reality
Who needs the truth? Who needs that cruel concrete light falling on a sterile wilderness. Give us the lies, the fantasies, the fables, the delirious dreaming of the twenty seven hemet netjers around the fevered bridal bed of the daughters of Thoth also known as Djehuti. (late of Alexandria). Give us false testimony, gross libels, succulent slanders, peerless perjury; and burn the books of the night watching savant and the destroyers of dreams.
For in the end there is no truth, just as there is no law, no rules, and no hope.
For in the end there is just the sound of a drop of water falling…falling without end…and the rustle of silent wings.