I got nothing to get up for in the morning, so I get up in the afternoon boom bow, there’s the September sun. No, curtain close it, hrumph I’m going back to sleep. Fine – I’m up finally, stretchy yawn still eyes are baggy sad at noon. See Dad’s old record player (tho new record player, old records) that I’ve hooked up in my room, and Bob’s Desire (Dylan I mean). The record is held in a sleeve within a sleeve within a sleeve, the first weakest as a withering sneeze, the second sideways like a crooked grin, the third a collage of Dylan et al, 1975. My 90s eyes can’t comprehend the amount of work that is put into such a piece, now no longer – I guess because no market – no money – and as we all know, money over everything (that is a Danny Brown ref.). Still, something nice about seeing it spin, and scratchy needle right place, see in Dad’s eyes yes, his memories are with these records, when he bought em, times he played um. Ahh I remember back in 2014 ‘Chill’ playlist on Spotify….that’s something no one will be saying ever, tho I guess nostalgia is condemned anyhow. Hurricane plays….
Down I go, dink donk dank Dad’s got wooden stairs the same I remember falling down in my dressing gown as a kid, navy blue and kinda felt feeling. Mum tried to kiss it better but it didn’t work, I got trashed down them stairs. Other times tryna run up – slip – BANG there goes your shin scraped dark birthmark all on it, dangerous. Still got the same shins now tho, but smarter so I don’t get smacked (smarter or slower?). There’s that brown carpet with patterns that I always thought looked like what are those things called underwater but like tornadoes? cyclones? And the sofa, or settee should I say and did say, back when I was sprinting towards it in slippy socks (thinking back I was a pretty dangerous idiot bull in a china shop kinda swagger) for my 50p pocket money for tidying my room. A pretty good wage now I think about it…
And there’s the kitchen door mostly glass ready to rattle and CRASH into apocalypse hooves as quickly as a little wind will say ‘hello’. There I go running again, now fresh grass smelling summer, SHUT THE DOOR – SLAM – SORRY MUM – I think tryna get the last hour of sun brown arms on my bike, looking down and feel the path underneath me pebbles and such. No aims, or means, but to feel them pebbles and cracks with wicked weeds creeping, and ants in their safety thousands tryna make a house a home, tho aren’t we all. (I always remember red ants, tho haven’t seen them in years). I guess it’s coffee time and open up the doors while I wait for it to brew, squint light and green square, all there, another day.
I like your style.
Great post…ah the work put into albums back in the day indeed…I still have a lot of my old vinyl albums. Thanks for visiting my blog:)
Thank you Cheryl. Fortunately a lot of music is still being brought out on vinyl, complete with all the lovely artwork, sleeves, etc. But you’re right, it’s nothing on the oldies. My pleasure.
The way you describe things. I love it. The line -“SHUT THE DOOR – SLAM – SORRY MUM”- says so much using so little.
And as for vinyl, some songs just have to be played on vinyl to sound right. Just sayin’.
Thanks for visiting my blog. It’s good to ‘meet’ you=)
Bad day, nice writing😀
Yes, love the oldies!
Yes, I love the intro, boom-pow
I wanted to like the post but couldnt find the button, so here is me liking your post.
LIKE´d, you should put a like button.
There you go buddy, just for you
First, thank you so much for the Follow on The Last Half–i really appreciate you joining us over there : )
Second, you def have a winsome winning wiggly way with words. What I think is that if you were into directions more mundane than your interests seem to lie, you might have a marketable way with them… That is, if you developed fiction plots, and told your tales with your clever words–don’t cry now, or gnash your teeth, but I’m envisioning a really witty detective thingy, f’rinstance–I think you’d have something someone somewhere might…
Or non-fiction such as extremely close observation humor/travelogue (think Bill Bryson “Notes From a Small Island” but edgier and younger, say)–or a satire, as if you are a tourist of your own nation. Just sorta spitballing as the ad-dudes and dudettes say.
Well, anyhow, point probably moot. I get to play the Aspie TMI card, though, and give unasked for advice in that guise all the time. Plus, I’m old. Really old. OMG–I think I just felt another bone crack! Gotta go!
(Thanks again : )
love ur posts, real talent, keep on truckin