Monday, 8 July 2013


Tonight I am in my apartment drinking gin and listening to music by all the insanely talented people I've been lucky enough to befriend // tour with // put on in my venues // make fires with in the woods // makeout with in the cities // dress up silly alongside and fall over around Edinburgh // book for festival stages // have happenings with // sit in a tiny office printing album covers for // throw feathers at // forever adore.

It is very sweaty and balmy and summertime and I am in my underwear. The balcony has red lights. The record player is loud.

I have just taken my cello out of its case for the first time in a while and, while I am confused about where my sequined hotpants ended up, I am excited about making noises again.

Things of late have been some heavy shit.

By that I mean: depression, mental breakdowns, tears, breakups, the end of good things, financial freakouts, shaky foundations, woe, oh, such woe.


If you can't afford your life, you might as well be living in a penthouse, playing at being a poet until the world works out.

If you can't stick at one job, you might as well be a writer and a cellist and a philosopher and a promoter and a drunkard and a lunatic and a terrible singer and a brewer and a venue manager and a lady who howls at the moon.

If you can't persuade a boy that it is better to twist like sunflowers, ever-towards the grin, you might as well hold out for yourself.

If you can't play in tune, you might as well play loudly.

You might as well sing like a doofus in your apartment. You might as well go out again. You might as well stop shaking the batea in the mud, you might as well break a window instead and grab your handful of gold.

This is my promise to myself for now. 

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