“SOMETIMES THE WORLD HAS A LOAD OF QUESTIONS”: THE GREAT CURVE – TALKING HEADS

Mysterious flags suddenly appear…

Swing-time

Last night I dreamt of sleeping, the echo of night-time light glimmering against the wet leaves through the unshuttered window. A square of silver-grey impressionism to the sound of vampiric scratches from the breeze-blown branches on the outside wall. My restless mind strayed to thoughts about our own curious orange, the cloth ribbons now twist-fluttering in their tree attachment that appeared overnight in a march down the mountain, across our track, through abandoned buildings via a newly installed sign that proclaimed the creation of a new road that is in reality squelching grass alternating with granite firmness, less than a car width and overhung. Hedges and trees have been sacrificed to the carving out of something that was always there, but unseen and unremarked until now. Following it reveals minor plateaus of either vines or abandoned ramshackle buildings that are, apparently, the result of Portuguese property and inheritance law combined with family disputes. These remain ripe for development as existing buildings can be the tick required for the new. The track winds further down, through a gulley, past fallen trees, descending out of sight. What is it for? Is it connected to the pylons marching across and down the mountain up and behind us? These themselves are the answer to the presence of amateur signs that have been placed at junctions attached to older signage or hammered into the earth, with the letter p followed by a number written on. Pointing in code. Walking up top we see one and follow our curiosity, and come to a site where a new pylon will take its place in the modernisation that is tracking across the mountain skyline.

In my sleeplessness I am reminded of watching the autumn clouds greying and darkening in their water heaviness as the news of Mimi Parker’s death came across the air and settled on the chest. Passing, and the end of Low. An irreplaceable voice of spectral haunting harmonies and melodies, atmosphere with few words needed to convey the textures of the human condition, wrapped in dislocated gospel sounds and reverberations. Something almost ancestral in sound and sense is now history, but will continue to drift into moments as a soundtrack to experience. A squinting sadness passed the corner of my eye, nestled under the skin in the bone behind my right ear, radiating a throbbing melancholy. Maybe this is what happens when those who die are younger than us, leaving behind an aura of unfulfilled breath.

Inevitably thoughts drift back towards recent visits by younger son and long held friends. A respite from the process of adjustment, a reason to avoid thinking about the on-rushing requirement to deal with officialdom and authority, and the sense of anxiety and intimidation that it can bring. Visits bring tourism. A train trip to Porto sightseeing. Vinho Verde lunches. Europe’s largest lock. Our first trip to Dino’s. The ease of meandering chatter and moving back into a rhythm from before leaves some questions in the air. Is that good or bad? Does it bequeath a deeper connection or a lack of the new? A few things remain unsaid out of necessity of circumstance, some sentences freeze on the lips. And parting always brings a heat to the bones and sinews, emphasised by the muscle grip of the leaving hug. The drive away from the airport, into the day, transporting us closer to documentation, procedures and government requirements that lack a sense of clarity felt a little heavy.

Still, the sun is coming up, and through the window the mists can be seen nestling in the river valleys, creating mountain top islands in bright sharp light. For today the autumnal rains and billowing ghostly clouds have passed.

Adrian

#Mimiparker #retiringoverseas