Birdsong. The mellow and sweet of it. The shrieks of panic (about everything) and the stone silence after a successful hawk attack. The soar of a violin, be it inside a symphony or a saucy leap into something new that surprises. I like something new and the Something Newers, those who take what is the establishment thinking and cut it up like the icon on a stunning church window which still shows the old and the acceptable but with lead lines of distance in between. lead. lead. 2 different ways of saying that word. One a noun, one a verb. I’m kind of fond of the verb, although I still pay homage to the noun. I often mix my nouns and verbs, intentionally, because the rebel writer in me just loves a feisty dance, which is what it becomes, if challenged. I remember yawningly dull dinner companions, (whose ties were tied so tight they could never have done ‘feisty’ nor ‘dance’) back in the day when dinners were social events and there was this fricken great list of all those you couldn’t not invite, and they always came onatop. It meant that the ones you actually liked, the ones with music in the soles of their feet, got slewed off like stones from a melting glacier. My only consolation in that thought was the fact that the glacier will eventually melt, whereas the stones will not.
Music. I listen to it all the day long. Could be classical, could be wild music, aka, the sound of the islands, rebel songs and tunes, could be great poetry in contemporary songs or it could be those songs that make absolutely no sense at all because the writers were stoned and in the back of a van returning from a gig and just let rip. I find solace in music. None in talk talk or skinny chat about the weather, nor in Love Island (sorry) or anything that shows me the world has gone quite bonkers. I read books on how it was/is to truly survive. Backdrop could be Cold War Russia, downtown Calcutta, booze soaked Greenland, A Home of Well Concealed Abuse, all sorts, all fenced off with something Rabbit Proof that stretches for hundreds of sandy sun-burned miles. And why is this? Because I want to learn how to survive. I want to hear through music and hawk attacks how sharp-witted I need to be. I don’t want more dresses or new lampshades or even a personalised number plate on Maz The Mini. All of this is dust in the wind.
Now this is not doom and gloom but the truth, and our children’s children should hear about it. Not in a way that tells them how it was in the old days; not, this is my only shawl and we hope it will rain/not rain kind of way. Not in the melting glacier misery or the manipulation of huge corporations selling poison as if it was hip. None of that. We should be teaching them (girls in particular) how to change a tyre on a wheelbarrow. How to recognise wild herbs on the banks of the road; how to replace a door handle. What stones work best when making a boundary wall. How to sew a hem (for goodness sake); how to create food for 8 when you only have enough for four.
Now that is music.