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Monday, 22 May 2006
One-two-three.
Crook of a spine, legs crossed and in chair but then, and only then, standing and reading from paper. The occasion of an event, John's celebration, unaccompanied voices and the sparse, healthy intonation of space within song. What is said, what is not said.
Then performance from the judges: a short tentative poem, old at the edges but with reticent heart; a ballad stolen from a shanty, echoes of the man himself; finally, the Bach prelude, the philharmonic leader caressing violin fret and urging the room to standing applause.
Finally, the awards given, one-two-three. Tearful, dutiful winners boasting of a complex, claiming of a relationship more real in the moment of things, that in the sense of its terms. We owe a debt that we never knew and things continue to continue.
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