Back in Ibiza for more songwriting with Rui. More house than pop this time, more me. I want to make a song called Fluffy, in honour of the singing cat. Maybe tomorrow it will happen. Maybe tomorrow.
After. This is now. We run to Cala Llonga, she and I, up the hill, round the shadows, down to the bay. Sun streaming, cool breeze, spring light. Fresh paint on the buildings, clear skies, clear head, everything right in this world. Right now.
Now. Arms burned red like the poppies in the field, burning. We have a tune, a track. After screaming attack, attack at the TV as the Chelsea fall to the Red Devils, we have one. Sounding fat on the big studio Genelecs.
And another day down there are two tunes on the range and a long run in the legs. Caminos. Poppies. Dust. Pine. Mimosa. Magnolia. Wild Garlic. Nearly over to Santa Eularia and back in a wonderful sea-bound hill-top loop. And I think they should be called City and Fluffy, if I get my wish. They are definitely at the art end of the pop/art spectrum but pleasing in a…
…but no. Actually they are not. They’re just boring, a distraction.
As interesting as this:
In the garden, in the pool, there is a floating foam float, one of those foamy things that you use to help you swim. On the float there are two geckos, floating, blown by the wind up and down the blue. They look like they are sunbathing. Or maybe waiting for the float / ferry to make contact with the other side.
I stare at them for some time. It’s kind of zen, waiting for the wind to blow the float to the side of the pool. Waiting in the sunshine. Like the geckos. Waiting.
As interesting as this:
Out in the garden, in the undergrowth, the fresh spring green, in chicken world, the cocks are jostling for position in the pecking order. Scrappy struts round the garden, then, feathers ruffled, head held high, he crows with all his might. Like a football fan at a low point in a boring game: we’re the west side, we’re the west side, we’re the west side of the garden,
Soon Pecky answers the call from over near the pen: we’re the middle, we’re the middle, we’re the middle of the garden.
And so it goes on, day after day, the unfolding rhythms of chicken life.
That’s how interesting these two tracks are. But we do have two others which we both like, that have more of a good vibe. They are called (with thanks to A.B.) Don’t Say Nothing and Say Something.