I am listening to my brand new album, A Tribute To Joni Mitchell. Apart from the fact that I love it, adore it, want to live inside it, I hate it. It is haunted by melodies that were, now thanks to the interruption of a housemate arriving home I am haunted by sentences that were almost, but not quite ready.
A small regathering of thought and I am back. The songs are masterfully done, beautiful beautiful but they are made stronger by the invisible unheard original song weaving through the silences. Some things are so powerful that they push out the shapes of what is before us. Music does this, art does this, words do this. Not a day goes by when two random words said one after the other don't conjur the shape of a sentence in my mind. In this way Virginia Woolf chose my shirt this morning and Joni Mitchell sang the title of this post.
What happens when these shapes and echoes are taken away? What colour is my life? Should I be more careful about letting things in that alter my perception if it can never be undone?
A small regathering of thought and I am back. The songs are masterfully done, beautiful beautiful but they are made stronger by the invisible unheard original song weaving through the silences. Some things are so powerful that they push out the shapes of what is before us. Music does this, art does this, words do this. Not a day goes by when two random words said one after the other don't conjur the shape of a sentence in my mind. In this way Virginia Woolf chose my shirt this morning and Joni Mitchell sang the title of this post.
What happens when these shapes and echoes are taken away? What colour is my life? Should I be more careful about letting things in that alter my perception if it can never be undone?
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