Infinitely Distracting

A fictious account of the making of an album; the year, 1984, Brixton, London. Fiction is a category of its own. Not exactly truth, processed, coaxed or beaten into stimulating lies.

How encouraging that is, to feel that, in some small and fragile way, you can reach out to people, touch and be touched, which appears to be, which appears to me, to be, as a band I mean, what we thirst for, and probably not as a band as well, this connection we seek, this belonging we lust, this place we long to be, and when you see it there within reach, the object of your dreams, the goal of your quest, well, that my friend is a high.

It’s dark down there, always dark, dark in the daytime, the tunnels funnelling down into the most absolute nothingness.

Delving into the drawers of memory, many treasures you can find.

Fanzine interview, recorded on a Philips N2227 portable cassette recorder, on a park bench, Soho Square, two-thirty p.m., and to be typed up … soon.

All this is just a stepping stone to … where I really should be.

Another day gone by, in this curious land that I cannot call home, for now, an alien I am, longing and not belonging.

When you start walking, different paths appear. And this path that I have taken, brings me, right now, right here.

I teeter for a time and then walk awkwardly like a newly-born fawn, venturing out and about, all the way downstairs and to the kitchen.

I wake from a strange dream in the early hours of some new day, the bed floating on a dense dark sea, a tenebrous glow on the horizon. (Quotes from “Peasants” by Anton Chekhov. Song: "Being born" from the album "Through the mirror".)