I kept my dream in my pocket

I kept my dream in my pocket,
I tended to it every day,
But then one day I forgot it,
It fell through a hole and scurried away.

Moving House

Discovered in an old box of papers: a genuine police report on an assault on a traffic warden, a very charming love letter from a boy whose name I've forgotten, a list of numbers entitled 'definitely DON'T call', and some descriptions of the smell of sadness.

And a poem scribbled on the back of a napkin:

'Here's to the sky drinking beaches,

Here's to the sea drinking sky,

Here's to going to Norfolk,

Here's to he and I.'

So long Summer House. It's been a blast.

Sunday night

I've been having a Sunday night youtube binge on DV8 and Pina Bausch, and this video, in particular, absorbed me.

We're quite preoccupied with worrying, in live arts, about the inability of documentary forms to accurately represent the live experience, as I've discussed before, but the reason why this is so mesmerising is precisely because the film footage is so poor. I'm sure if, at the time, better film equipment had been available, it would have been used: but somehow this has given me a much stronger feeling that I was there. Because it is fuzzy around the edges, like many memories I have of shows I've seen and loved.

And I love it a little bit too because it makes me feel like I'm watching something I'm not supposed to...