Dear my closest and most valued companion,
I have been thinking a lot about energy.
About words that are thrown and the ripples than run out from them, teasing passers by with the unpromisable promise of meaning and sense. About the energy that comes from these words and the light they instil in their listeners. Now bear with me whilst I take these words and toss them around between sounds and sights, whilst I roll them across different images in different times and different ways. These words trail over the scintillating surface of people and indent new grooves in which new droplets of desires and dreams cling. These grooves catch the light and scatter onto the faces around. And in this turning and reflecting shadows are softened and laughter is heard. He asked ‘Be my muse?’ and she replied, ‘ok’. Sometimes these surfaces are beaten and worn and learn to resist. Where light once played it is now taken in towards the heavy heated centre of darkness and pain. Hovering steps and downcast eyes in the desolation of car parks and the abandonment of empty kitchens. It is in these plains of loss that these reflections lose their beauty and their power. And rightfully so. Imagery has no place here. The sensitive soul, therefore, remains a gift. Hiding under the folds of intonations and innovations is its own special light that warms and blinds and seems far greater than you.
I have been thinking a lot about energy. Or I haven’t really been thinking at all. Either way I must go, I have to get to the shops before closing and I’m desperately out of bread.
Send my love to the family.
Your dearest and most devoted friend.
I have been thinking a lot about energy.
About words that are thrown and the ripples than run out from them, teasing passers by with the unpromisable promise of meaning and sense. About the energy that comes from these words and the light they instil in their listeners. Now bear with me whilst I take these words and toss them around between sounds and sights, whilst I roll them across different images in different times and different ways. These words trail over the scintillating surface of people and indent new grooves in which new droplets of desires and dreams cling. These grooves catch the light and scatter onto the faces around. And in this turning and reflecting shadows are softened and laughter is heard. He asked ‘Be my muse?’ and she replied, ‘ok’. Sometimes these surfaces are beaten and worn and learn to resist. Where light once played it is now taken in towards the heavy heated centre of darkness and pain. Hovering steps and downcast eyes in the desolation of car parks and the abandonment of empty kitchens. It is in these plains of loss that these reflections lose their beauty and their power. And rightfully so. Imagery has no place here. The sensitive soul, therefore, remains a gift. Hiding under the folds of intonations and innovations is its own special light that warms and blinds and seems far greater than you.
I have been thinking a lot about energy. Or I haven’t really been thinking at all. Either way I must go, I have to get to the shops before closing and I’m desperately out of bread.
Send my love to the family.
Your dearest and most devoted friend.