Rocks

Rocks in the head some days; circling around the same mistakes. He went through all the motions, was prolific, or concise, as always; the surface froth of things. They were glorious days, stopping the car, getting out, walking in these extraordinary landscapes. Nothing to wonder why.

Only just starting to get on top of the bills. Things need to be more organised than they are. Been to Liverpool radio and back with a bloke who's an ex-rock musician who has just written a book called the Daddy Split Guide. He's very lively. Always in these crowded streets, endless traffic. A sound technician's nightmare. He wasn't going to surrender, not yet.

Different interests filtered around. That criticism they used to make of various authors, an emotional life like a dirty laundry basket; well how much was there these days? Eighty, sometimes ninety per cent of the people in various scenes seemed younger than him. It was like India, where something like half the population is under 25. These outposts into which he had ventured, he was no longer confident. The sweeping vistas could lead to ruin. Was it worth matching up for the sake of it? Was that where it all led, to where the core lay? Into the secret halls where he would never be himself again. Rocks in the head.