Everything eternal happens in a spare room after 1 a.m.
I’ve come downstairs from the loft after working all night, trying to find a new song. The one from the last few days doesn’t seem to be coming to anything. I can’t stand it suddenly. So we’re not speaking to each other, for now. (Songwriting is, mostly, a struggle against silence.)
So this one gets the drawer, for now.
Oh, yes, the drawer: I keep a musical
rummage treasure drawer of everything queer, strange thing I play, sing and record. Nothing made up is cast off or thrown away.
A lyrical fragment can lurk around in the little studio up the stairs for years. Or be standing beneath the aged chestnut tree just outside. Somewhere, somehow a bit of a song will reveal itself at some point.
Okay, back to work. Back to the gems waiting to be uncovered, tinkered with and made into meaning through their arrangement.
You see, I know how to fight with a song … and how to make up.