It was all about making the shoogily connections work; ensuring the linkages eased the transition from one platformed bridge to another. This was when that black and white coastal house was a 'family' home - do you even remember those days when you walk past it now with your own bairns? I am guessing you still walk past it... do you? This was back when before the garden was 'cleared' for an extension and the fertile soil, full of sweetpeas, tatties and non-gendered love, was, well, soiled with the spade of 'development'. But, och, just forget your modern-day skateparks and your cemented bike tracks and what-the-fuck-pay-for-it-nots. We DIY'd it, so we did. After school; when it was proper 'old' school. All bowl-haircuts, feet apace at quarter to three and pro-jock masculinist stances. Those insecurities and uncertainties ran deep, even then. And I always did stand back, you know, watching, waiting and wondering. In a sublime continuation of fear of failure and sibling admiration, I suppose. I was just scared for my knees, in the main, and probably ripping that uber-hip trackie-top. But time moved forwards and I left that shell-of-bricks at seventeen and a half and that was that, really. The home without heart contained me no more. Goodbye broken memories, hello post-Lacan therapy.
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Moose - 'Last night I fell again' (3.18)
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To buy.
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That record; be still my beating heart.
ReplyDeleteYup. Still sounds beautiful to my jaded lugs. Even after all these years. Or *especially* after all these years, in fact.
ReplyDelete