On a Pavement Rudely Carved

On a pavement outside King's Cross: "are you feeling sinister?" written for anyone with eyes in their heads. Now long since faded away, probably unceremoniously, mundanely scrubbed away by an indifferent municipal worker. Someone yet to be comforted by the sweet voice carried by the wind from the top of a nearby hill, the depths of a not-so-distant tube stop, or any of these places that have deservingly had a song written about them. I managed to find my way to the hilltop anyway, and the welcome shade of the trees on that Sunniest Day In History. And I found the people I had known for so long, through the simultaneous clatter of keys, separated in space but united in intent. The solace of so many sharp minds reverberating in consensus – a quiet revolution. People that perhaps once were hopeless unbelievers but listened to Stuart’s Baby Songs and now have enough faith in the world to have babies and sing songs that aren’t even remotely feeble. Too many people to talk to in a week, much less the scant hours of daylight. People that previously felt unreal but only turned out to be too good to be true. Idols that are now proudly counted as friends. Renowned pop stars, perhaps known only to those who appreciate the sky, but stars all the same. I see stars, as Pam sang. And Joe didn’t say “you don’t say”. Instead he lectured us on that slow afternoon on The Cat’s Miaow, Lloyd Cole, the best parts of Tigermilk. But by the time he said “baby, you’ll do” the babies had already been carted away. The fabled tales of jenny suddenly materialised after having only been a figment of my imagination. A barely present voice whispered Trotsky of Our Time, Eye For Ivy and Tuesday Girl. The ghosts of York seemed to surround me. Tim recollected the bliss of long-gone visits. We’ll Never Be Cool is as much a soundtrack to that evening as to my life, as to their lives, our lives. Sometimes differences are smaller that distances. People drifted off to play football in old band t-shirts, 'old' both in respect to the garment and the band - the same in all cases of course. Parents drifted off to put babies to bed. The Pocketbook angels headed all down the hill, after having been awarded the same attention as an old discarded demo tape. Thirst beckoned people down to Harrison St and a pub wittily named Harrison. I stayed until sunset, because if you are on a hill the sunset lasts longer. I attended a late evening meal for talented writers. Noodles for Pinefox and friends of the heroes, though it is still unclear to me who these were in that situation. Walking into the pub, the already sweaty dancers explained that their noodling days were over. My doodling days have just begun, I replied. And my bip-bopping days certainly aren’t over, although my boots are making my feet ache. I had brought my camera with the intent of taking pictures of pavements. But as the writing was gone I aimed it at people instead. In hope of capturing their true colours. Sometimes it succeeded. Don’t you think there should be a museum somewhere? For all the little things we do:

The hill was claimed, today, by so many.

Listening to Visitors #1 singing behind a branch.

Listening to the Yorkians,the Yorkies, the Jorviks, making their own acoustic soundtrack.

Staying out alive till the last of the sun.

Pinefox scratched his head and wrote the captions.