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Friday, 19 May 2006
Street.
Summer rain in spring, dampening and quietening onto the road and pavements, a residue dimming and fading. The red wooden porch, black wooden porch, blue wooden porch, black wooden porch remain stiff in the wind. Blossom clouds into the air and then settles in doorways and up against kerbs, the brackish & tired plants in the windowboxes exhausted by the wind.
This is the street, and the site of evidence, the case in hand. And whilst contracts are up, time is over and deadlines of mid-August have been drawn between landlord and tenants, the street will remain. Not just in shell and postcode, nor simply in association and topograph, but in the actuality of my everyday.
The annual renewal of house contract has been rendered impossible by crumbling plaster, tipping doors, sparking, shorting electrics and dog-eared walls. We must move, we have to move out. Where to?
The perfect answer: upstairs.
Taking over the flat directly above, the flat with three bedrooms and two other rooms, the flat with the grand sloped kitchen and stepped yard, the flat from where a year of noise and sleeplessness originated. Some have been here longer.
Now however, we have taken a gamble; a musician and a poet, a photographer and a writer, a journalist and a musician, a writer and a composer - the combinations continue, flexing and rotating like Rubik's.
And the new living space will not just portray a kind of placed-in-place but rather a formative dwelling. The plans are afoot for the recording studio, the gallery, a writer's study, artists-in-residence, sub-letting to those who wish to contribute to a series of books, a series of albums all glued together from field recordings, environmental consequences and the chance of who might be passing through.
15:56 Posted in Confessional | Permalink | Comments (0) | Email this