David Bromige
MY CAREER
I can't abide people who ' start to talk as soon as they enter a
room, without pausing to check out what's going on in there.
That's what I think about growing up late in a slow time. As for
sleeping dogs, shout
&
turn purple. My first words were "Fort"
and " Da" so they put a box turtle in my crib which I took apart
to see why it didn't tick. Fixed tunings and scales were invented,
and the charm of single notes. A veil of melancholy slipped over
my eyes and it was strange, this kid was putting stresses on
syllables that were seldom under stress before. He got little more
than a polite hand, or fingering, for words are not only the keys
of persuasion, but so full of holes a bus could drive right
through. Simply ask for a transfer. You gonna ride a
boxcar?
It
was very dark inside the fish. Trying to think without
jumping. Little more than a fingerling, at the fascinating
question, How did music begin? Kissing Joyce King in the
fishmonger's doorway on Cricklewood Broadway - the world
allows no hermits! There are two tragedies in life: the little yes,
gone on a breath; I forget the rest. Time went haywire: there
were always people in the time. Nothing taught sex was impor–
tant: I could see well, if that's what a magnet is. "You liked my
body?" "Yes - was that what it was?" And she was right, I
represented a system. So, it was broken up. This is history. One
blots out another. My voice ran on easily and garrulously,
carefully dressing panic.
