Claim OwnershipInfinitely Distracting
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© Peter Loveday 2023
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Each Sunday, tune in for the next chapter of "Infinitely Distracting", written and delivered by author Peter Loveday, (Cover photo by Bleddyn Butcher. All other photos, sketches, etches, paintings and music by Peter Loveday.)
162 Episodes
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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".)
It doesn’t always go as planned. Often, there is no plan. Detailed drawings we do not have, simply brief reminders scribbled on back of hand, a scrap of envelope, or scratched in the dirt with a stick. (Music excerpt "Through fishes' eyes" from the album "The man who loved flowers" by David McClymont and Peter Loveday.)
We make our way towards the new year, supping in Soho and slipping books under sweaters and up sleeves, fuelled on cappuccinos and stout, treating hangovers with Feminax, while sitting staring into the depths of dark Rothkos at the Tate. (Music excerpt "Through fishes' eyes" from the album "The man who loved flowers" by David McClymont and Peter Loveday.)
Being on the cusp of festive days, I wander down Brick Lane, in search of a gift of some kind to send home, a token, a souvenir, a reminder, to let my family know that I think of them, … occasionally, … I do. (Music excerpt "Through fishes' eyes" from the album "The Man Who Loved Flowers" by David McClymont/Peter Loveday)
Highs and lows. High points and low points. The road, always the road, twists and turns. The lie of the land, varied and infinitely distracting.
We have angels up there, looking over us, sometimes guarding us from danger.
Without a song, where would we be? Where would we be without a song? Recording new songs in an old school bus, in Ladbroke Grove.
The crooked house on the corner of Marlborough Avenue is slowly sinking into the ground, swallowed up by the marsh. But we are light on our feet, nimble and quick, and permanence does not appear on our list of bare essentials. (Song: "Room at the inn" from the album "Room at the inn" (2007) by Peter Loveday and featuring Andy Gemmell, Sarah Davison and Naomi Wedman.
Spurred on by my own lethargy and lack of achievement, I rise in the morning bewildered but determined, determined to leap into action. Song: "Cloud song" from the album "The Faraway Near" - Peter Loveday.
Rocking oneself to sleep in a hammock, rocking all the way down into the valley of dreams.
Once you start, you cannot stop. This rewinding and peering into the past, overcome with backroom reverie and non-specific yearning. The story returns, briefly, to where it began. (Containing quotes from "2666" by Roberto Bolaño) (Song: "Pretty black rose" from the album "For everything a place, 2025")#robertobolaño #foreverythingaplace
Long nights stretched out between briefly glimpsed days. Songwriting and a debut in London. The story goes on. (Music: Birds of Tin, "High road, low road".)
this infernal reaching out… blindly… for something
Autumn quickly plummets into winter. Sometimes sleet, sometimes snow, often rain, or constant drizzle. Shoes are full of rain, and from salt on the road, … shoes stain. Feet soaked, toes wrinkling up like raisins. Socks are better … off. Hang them by the gas fire and watch the steam rise.
I lose myself at night and then come back again in the morning when I wake. How can that be. Where do I go. What exactly do I do there, that it is so hard to recall as soon as I wake. Do I leave my body entirely to float, to wander in the ether of dreams. Is this biology, chemistry, electrical engineering or metaphysics.
I am sent to the records department of the Law Society in Chancery Lane. Imagine my dismay to discover that they are not the kind of records I envisage.
Sometimes, things fall into place, mysteriously or methodically. Some believe it to be the work of stars, others put it down to numbers and maths, or even genetic design and disposition. There are those who feel the hand of some powerful being pulling strings, as if we were mere puppets, perhaps we are… (London skyline illustration by the author: EP cover design - Tiny Town, No Place Like Rome)
Small wonders win the day.
Faced with an empty pocket I am forced to leave aside, for a moment at least, my artistic endeavour in search of income and gainful employment, inevitably implying interruption of dreaming and a slap to the face from reality. (Music: Post-Birds of Tin. Image: Vigeland sculpture, Oslo.)
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