Just as I thought I was getting on top of my back problems through a heady and punishing regime of yoga, resistance and physio…
I reached for a petrol pump last night en route to meet my father for a quiet drink and felt my body cut in half through the waist with a lighting fork of very pure very clear pain. Now, I am stuck in a chair barely able to lift my hand to hold a glass of water. Around me I can see the detritus of my last few months reading (techgnosis, straw dogs, the end of faith, heresies, rubicon, thousand faces of the hero, morphology of the folktale), and a bunch of scribbled notes relating to recent recording works and our plans for the garden.
The painkillers are very strong and I am finding that my mind is going off under the veil of pain to align curious flights of fancy around the abstract symbolic roots of language itself, the alphabet as a series of “spells” revealing the reason why God came to be such an important figure to all civilisations (as opposed to the more fashionable resistance to the phenomenon), the importance of circles in the ground and, in particular, circles of birch trees, how one can generate the sound of electric soil, how one can more deeply engage the heart through single beautifully placed chord changes, how the sandpit of my noise creates a language more honest, more political, more incisive than can be provided or described in written word mediated communication, how colour and rhythm localise music to its eternal detriment, how, despite the course if HGs internal logic, the words inevitably are finding their way back into the mix, how… how long until my next horsepill, nurse?
