Fell asleep in a orchestra and woke.
Spent a night walking between two rooms. The first, a transitory living space, beige walls swallowing the depth of the room, two small tables and a full length mirror. A vase of daffodils upon the small wooden table, dividing the room with its delicate yellow palette. Two friends in the room, spending precious time together, the commodity they cannot buy, only work towards. Their laughter is shared and yet they spend the night alone.
The second room is used for working and sleeping and eating. It’s coming together, but we have to leave in a few months. There is a negligence here though, a withdrawal of attachment, a preventative cure to the burden of moving house. We cannot stay long, I cannot love you. The neighbours don’t have names, just working hours and light-switches. This room is where I spend all my time, caught between loosening reticence and tightening fragility, lying prone upon the green sofa, imagining tall grasses and property boundaries, while on the television next door all the talk is of escaping the favellas. Some live in hope, others in stupidity.
The talk of the relationships was the eye of the evening, the point through which all reference and poignancy may be thread. She spoke of distance and the ache and irreality, the conscious removal into a neutral space every weekend, shedding climaxes and hopes for calendared affection, while I spoke of a close friend and the need to cause an upset with my libido, just to reaffirm a few things.
Earlier in the park we had passed over bridges and paused upon inclines (the dogs tried to attack my companion) while discussing integrity and the compliance with the commerciality of ones work. It is a compromise you have to achieve. It is all about drawing the right pressure, like fresh water from a tap. Change is inevitable, charting and burgeoning amongst the shadows, pretending if you will.
Later, I reasoned with myself; to sleep intoxicated once more only impedes my mornings. Evenings are blunt without some form of recreation though, and as long as I convince myself with a glossy purpose, then I’m fine. I’ll phone the water company, hassle my employers, pick up the parcel from the collection point.
The circles of the record are weary and drunk, they seem to overlap and weave until the needle is set with precision and a confused silence, nothing recognisable. Tracing the electronic signal’s path from vibration, through the player’s arm and then through gulleys and dams of wires and pre-amps, routing into the amplifiers, warming now, released back into the wires and racing to a conclusion, the stuttering form, analogue crackles through the air.
I fall asleep in an orchestra and wait to wake.