Where in Another World in Miniature.




An armature – a suture – like a small animal curling round like your daemon from another universe. Here’s the jangly feeling you get when you find a shuttered door between worlds, the tiny spark like the green flash when the sun goes down and explodes into the here and now. And that beat powers it all, keeping time in the background, in the ambience and silence of most of the unoccupied globe. And every sentence starts with a proposition if that is something up with which you cannot put. In the end there’s nothing really showy here, just the lights of a mediocre country fading from it’s golden age into the fug of the end of history. And now I dive into the microscopic, a safe viewer of all these little insects, this alien place of danger and beauty, where tiny things get imprisoned in a drop of water. Trouble down the milky way we think – a dream of loud music in the heads of people stuck on desert islands somewhere on the crazy ocean – blue and Higher definition than we remember from those days we didn’t worry about anything – backed by a sort of punky electronica that defines the start of memoirs, all those tales of childhood that you think might make a good story. So loud is all this, quirky bass and percussion that you seem to find by the side of the road, running along the fence with a stick, the missing posts beating out the rhythm of some familiar but lost song – the new electric band. Trying to surface through the oil of some pacific battle, through sharks and debris, torn and useless life-jackets, still with names in orange where the ship went down for nothing. Call it all in, all those favours you did for paradise and see where it gets you, all that call to white and calm, through doorways into other places, other lives; they get you nowhere, and know where you live for that is it for you in this world. All this is just trying to talk like music, like Gareth taught me all those years ago though maybe I missed his point for he was deep into the maths of music and all I thought was how it fitted into the sounds of language, the analysable sounds of speech matched up with musics meant to thrill and inspire. I am a music, a genre like the siren’s call or gamelan, beating bronze to death in the humidity and depth of things.