One Train Later

It’s one o’clock in the morning and I’m awake. Reading the final chapters of Andy Summers‘ book ‘One Train Later‘ seemed a good idea at the time. His journey from small clubs and one-off solo spots to the Police gig at Shea Stadium in 1983 was over and my mind was spinning. What a life he has led. Few of us are that talented, fortunate or (dare I say ?) victims of syncronicity (yeah I couldn’t resist).

Unable to sleep my tossing and turning is keeping my better half awake so I retreat to the kitchen, pour a pint of milk and sneak past the watchful eyes of the two cats. Taking my laptop into the living room I put on a bollywood movie. No, I don’t know why either. I can’t be bothered changing the channel. The sound is off but the colours are bright and almost technicolour. My laptop transmits a logo through the darkness as if signalling to nobody there that I’m on-line and writing.

The last couple of weeks have been high and low and full of change.

I’m ill again with the never ending sinus problem and have developed an odd renal-type infection. This is not normal and it’s bothering me. In my doctor I trust and to my body I will listen. There is a minor operation coming up in a couple of weeks which will give me another three or four years of relief from sinusitis and help me recover the energy that has been lacking since earlier this year. Slowing down and giving myself time to heal is not something I do well. It will be the undoing of me I am told.

I miss playing and writing. The problem is energy and time. Time I can make: that’s the easy bit.  But if the spirit is willing and the flesh is weak then I know I should concede defeat and wait. Sunday last I sat with my favourite guitar and played a little. I lay back and fell asleep. Relaxed or poleaxed?

Changes. Next week I travel to the US for some meetings to introduce me to my new colleagues. After seventeen years in the same organisation it’s time for me to move on and find something new. Move on and learn. Although I’m not defined by my job sometimes I have to let it take the driving seat for a while.

The phone is full of little recordings containing song ideas. Chord sequences and melodies that might never leave their digital embryo.

The studio is half-full of nearly finished recordings. All just waiting for a couple of bits to be added and of course some vocals that don’t sound like I’m singing with my fingers stuck up my nostrils.

The head is full of little ambitions. Some new gigs and approaches to live performance.