Sleevenotes

I wrote these sleevenotes a long time ago, 1985-ish. I love the word luscious

This summer night of luscious wind and rain. Across the water only we can see and only you can hear. It's the dead time of year. The lighthouse: three flashes then eleven seconds of blind silence during which you can fall in love or crash onto the rocks. Dark country roads, paths to the beach and strange ruins hidden in the dunes. She used to live there you can tell. The pier lights the water: it is too late and it is closed. Beg her to run away with you. Summer gone now and buried in my heart/but I remember (too well). These tired eyes and hers/these tired eyes and yours. It was a windy day, her skirt blew up not thinking. But she wasn't the one and I was never there. You end up walking endlessly in rain searching for the doughnut stand singing operator operator... you lose your sense of humour then the lighthouse flashes again and you recall.

I thought of them because I'm a couple of songs away from drawing a line under some things, sticking them on a CD and calling it, in my current half-assed manner, a record. I was thinking how in the days of Letraset and having an old man who was a printer, I used to put more effort into things than I do these days. It's all a question of putting in the hours.

Tomorrow, as a further treat, I will post a bitter little short story that was originally published in Slow Dancer magazine in the summer of 1986.