The editing of the film is progressing.
It will be a document to eat.
In the mornings,
arguing with Howard and Robbie
about the meaning of that
may take us hours.
In the afternoons, I play.
Sometimes Maria accompanies me with her chocolate-coloured tambourine,
sometimes Jesee drifts off by the amplifier,
sometimes Sara looks at us, caressing her belly as round as a moon.
I try out chords to test my voice.
My voice now, with nobody listening.
Manchester + the Triumph dying on Striebel Road
[defending yourself by attacking, then disappear].
I hear it -my voice,
I listen to me -something has changed, and not.
What was different with the band around?
What would it be like to listen to us playing together now?
Rick told me at times they get bored.
Howard needs them less and less,
he says we've already filmed enough material
and we should now focus on the editing
of the edible document.
to listening to myself surrounded once again.
I'll ask them to come round and play in the evenings
from time to time,
after the kids are in bed.
There's enough place in the Red Room, four and twenty windows, a wet bar and a couple of sockets for whatever comes up. They'll feel glad. A certain way to miss each other consists in wanting to know what we would be now (what we would be again?)
along with those who once were part of us.
Tomorrow is Sunday, a good day to start.