These days are like underwater swimming.
In my dreams I used to breathe under water and wonder why other people just can’t do the same. Swimming the same deep water as you is hard, they said.
But I only run shallow bays, warm and sun-drenched, sparkling warped stars surround me and I feel a bit fetal not knowing which way is top or bottom, because there is no gravity in my dreams or it simply doesn’t affect us.
If you want to know someone better, leaf through her CDs, you say. What I find there, in my underwater listening promenades are these aching streams of sound, so tender, so hopeless and yet so invincible. Each of them is like a snowflake dancing on the edge of spitting flames. Yet it's never going to melt, so fragile and so immortal.
These sounds crawl into my mind like wounded animals into a den and swim along, inside and along, they do.
They hurt like ice bits in that stupid boy’s eye but instead of making me see evil they make me smile and want to embrace the world.
These strange days of underwater swimming to the heart of the split night, to the heart of the double sun, they are like nothing else under or beyond the sun.
The strangest days of deepwater music in my helium-injected soul grinding down the rusted anchor-chain that holds it down.
The days of flying stars and waiting 747s.