I keep on dying, because I love to live

Happy Summer Solstice. Time to write something a little less mysterious.

As the years pass by I’m believing more and more in Vivaldi’s depiction of summer, and becoming less ashamed of enjoying the clichés. London was at a violent temperature yesterday – 34.C. Mosquitos have already made a dance floor of my legs: clusters of mini gunshots along my calves and thighs. Damn these hungry, inebriated beasts. I am forced to douse myself with fēng yóu jīng and sprinkle it on my mattress. I leave the tiny bottle open on my bedside table; hopefully the fumes of magic, anti-demon potion will keep the evil spirits away.

Each day we wake up as if we’ve been wearing thermals in bed. We are hot from the air and the weight of time, then we cover ourselves against the ammunition of the sun. Hot hot hot. Layers and layers of  chain mail.

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Chainmail, Amartey Golding

 

In the Four Seasons, Vivaldi writes of a summer that rouses our blood and our propensity for violence. Violence and conflict, like the friction of two sticks, rub sparks, make fires. That much we have seen in London throughout June. From terrorists mowing people down on pavements, hitting worshippers at mosque, to the fires of nightmares; not to mention the news that is overshadowed by the blazing headlines and the offences that never get reported by the public…

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20th October 2016 – Gloomy Sunday, All Days, Always

I am in a place where I congratulate myself for merely opening my violin case, tuning my strings and fumbling a scale on the fingerboard. If by some miracle I make it any further, my soul seems to shrivel with dissatisfaction and hopelessness into one of those slimy slaves in Ursula’s cave, the name of which is frustratingly hard to find even on such magnanimous search engine like Google.

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Alive on Pluto

A sheet of silk
A slice of silver paper
Perfect glass at one atom’s depth
The wing of a bee between your index and thumb


It feels as pure as the 0, with 1 being and only ever being the exact opposite: unconsciousness, non-existence.

Death.

As flat and smooth as the side of a sheet of aluminium paper, and its binary counterpart the underside. The left to its right; the light in the darkness; the silence that gives birth to sound.


Maybe it’s one of those 20th century post-modern paintings – only one or two blocks of raw colour – by one of those American names who has a load of canvasses in the New York MoMA. I remember a special sharp blue and it was a square.

See how it lingers in the back door of the mind, like an anonymous, faceless bringer of information.


Sometimes if I’m lucky I feel the sheet flutter in my hand and I have the power in my fingers.