Late sleeping, I opened the pages of the notebook to make my reminders, and stared at the numbers at the top of a new spread and otherwise empty double pages the colour and size of bread.
For a moment, still sleep-boggled, I thought they were coded new ATM passwords, then remembered they are the only two frequencies, Hz-wise, I heard anything on, on my Radio Shack PRO-71.
Whenever I write Hz, with my bad arm I think of Everything Hurtz, the song a part of the last Fall album I truly, honestly loved. Magnificent, I think of that collective I define, neatly a decade, ‘83 to ‘92, from Perverted By Language to Code: Selfish. O, brother, here we go:
Perverted By Language
The Wonderful and Frightening World Of
This Nation’s Saving Grace
The Frenz Experiment
I am Kurious Oranj
And that although I kept on buying and proclaiming, in my heart really knowing, well, I know it’s over. What is that, when you walk out on a band you adored? When you have all you need; when you keep that and ask for no more.
I drew up the blind to snow I’d forgotten about, and instead of them flying upwards in a flap like they usually do, all the birds in the garden stayed put; chief among them the winning male blackbird, jet and slick against the snow, his mango-yellow beak working at some butternut squash, the last of the last of pie season in our house.
a fat, warm blackbird
in a cold and spikey tree
was a piece, a doodle, I did at Jacob Kramer, Leeds, Leeds College of Art, as bid by Patrick Oliver, tutor, whom I’d earlier watched hissing and fizzing with joy at his memory of the opposites of
a hot cat sitting
on a cold stone wall
and knew I wanted to interpret that, and made the observation of this blackbird. Then, just as now.
© Steve Mitchell, Fisher Lane