Sitting around the table, glad to be away. An awkward meal, looking forward to home. The road outside, grey and suburban. This was special. This was not special. This was forced. This was burgundy. A time of boot sales and BMX rallies. A time of misty conifer woodland plantations. And it was in that shop where I bought the Sisters of Mercy 12”s, still looking for those courses to the source of anomie and joy, those pleasures of restraint and rhythm, those needle-tracked pathways to resonance and sympathetic reverberation.
It was a pathway. It was always a pathway, a threading through the landscape. A plotting of a route, a tapering of contours so long and so short. And it was always thesame and it was always different. It was one foot in front of the other, one pedal down, one spurt forwards.
“What do you think?”
“About what?”
“This”
“Oh, I dunno. Give it a go. See what happens.”
“Yes, but why?”
“Now, that is a good question. Do you expect an answer?”
“Sooner or later, yes. There’s got to be an answer.”
“OK then, let’s see if anything emerges. Meanwhile, got any good stories?”
Weaving. Take the stand, the strands, the taut bands of form, the lines and the gaps between the lines and fix them tight Then bob in and out, throw the bobbins through, then clasp it tight and comb it down. Look back, don’t look back, choose something new, take the same threads. Then knot it up, pull it off and look at it , the whole thing, floppy and lifeless, but full of pattern and colour.
Who was he, what did he do? Did he do anything. Did he just repeat himself? Did he dance? Did he dance enough? Was it what he wanted, was it to any effect? Was it a happy, empty, blank space of being and doing and moving?
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