where mojo gone?

tuesday 25th september
7.30 am

soulless in wester lix

. . . from that first waking moment that dissolving dark shroud of night has been failing in its attempt to radiate its promising half-light into my guarded mind. the proof, as if one was needed, is that there has been not an inkling of that familiar warming tension when even the most meaningful selections from my list of music fail to spark and I am striving to find more than just words to use in making this feeble entry. I am spewing out these meaningless utterances from a too high, too surface-borne, part of my consciousness; but I continue in the hope that somehow I can inject this soulless offering with a spark of spirituality, with something more than just the nicotine and caffeine powered outpourings from this motorless vehicle.



I attempt to regenerate this spark searching through my playlist. j.j.cale offers some hope, jeff beck's 'cause we've ended as lovers' seems to get those juices flowing, but it is a false hope as his virtuous guitar work eventually demands too much attention and the basic requirement for simple sadness or joy, either would have done, is consumed by a far too complex array of what would have been, had I been in the mood, a perfect composition. too many commas; that must surely be a symptom of this fractious semi-literal offering. another beck piece, the same progression, the same anticlimax; disappointment again, then 'greensleeves', that beautifully simple musical jewel that encompasses in but a few moments, the optimism, the pain, the joy of that elusive age, allegedly written by that most unlikely of composers, henry the eighth, promises to bridge that lifeless flow. the unwelcome ditty 'I'm henry the eighth I am . . .' mercilessly seeps from the memory bank and breaches the fragile defences of this desperate cool heart that longs to be cocooned with that unattainable warming shroud. 'in my place', coldplay; by the tenth rendition, it is, at last, starting to happen though the commas are still very much at large. it is, perhaps, a symptom of this interrupted stream, this clogged artery through which the soul's blood cannot pass freely.

content that I have, at least, made an attempt to continue the day's journey with the complete package, I round up this pathetic jumble and pack it as neatly as I can in the hope that the virtual postman will deliver it safely to your door. the dogs and I will take a little walk down the track and we will get on and see what the day has to offer. I think I am going to rename them meea and leeloo.