We seem to be edging forward towards a kind of normality. I had not foreseen that the second lockdown would snuff out the usual winter ‘flu epidemic, so that the NHS has coped much better through January and February than we might have dared to hope.
Here is a poem about learning to play a musical instrument, and about the mystery of creativity. I was thinking about Miles Davis and his masterpiece Kind of Blue, the last word in sophistication, which somehow went on to become the best selling Jazz LP of all time. How and where did that come from? And every musician is playing at the height of his powers. Not a quantum leap. Not quite out of nowhere. A miracle.
SCALES (Don't play what's there, play what's not there - Miles Davis) Correspondences not exact but tenacious. The quarrel with noise. Difficulties with breathing and tone. Consummations of a sort, phrases joining together not quite matched. Found melody ear unexpectedly attuned. Realisation that belonging's a temporary thing like renting a room. Need to unlearn start elsewhere. Exercises, hour after hour, intervals, semitones, scales; silver beneath stretched fingers streaming away from intent. Finding their way into dreams from the edge of sleep, misspoken message token of what's not there.