It’s Saturday morning and I’m sitting at my desk while Rigby lays at me feet licking and chewing at the big hunk of bone that’s his weekend treat. I have my iTunes library on shuffle – right now it’s REM with one of my favourite songs of theirs, Strange Currencies, before it was The Cure, and before that an old Vince Jones track, I Didn’t Know What Time It Was.
It’s a splendid song. I listened to it thinking that’s how it ought to be. Love without romance is not real full deal, and if you don’t overwhelmed and confused at some point you’re missing out on the full experience. I don’t remember when I copied this version, but it was straight from LP. It cracks and pops as it’s playing, Vince Jones plaintive and happily melancholy as he sings about how he lost his head over you. It’s a song that brings back memories. There was a girl, many moons ago, who I would walk with down Brighton Beach, one end to the other and back again, just talking, coming to know each other, feel. I fell in love with that girl and I felt it tender in me. There were times I could have wept with it, happy and grateful, and at other times confused and unsure. I listened to a lot of Vince Jones back then (he’s a great performer), and there was one song particularly that seemed to sum up how I felt: Tenderly.
It evoked those twilit nights on Brighton beach, the earnest conversations and wilful hopes. Even now I can’t hear that song without thinking of her. That’s one of the beauties, and mysteries, of music.
So many memories. Now it’s Everclear with Everything to Everyone – summer days and sweaty drinks and convertibles and bare feet and parties and the tang of an unexpected kiss from an unexpected person and the mad rush of sex for the fun of it, the morning dawning clear the day after, all good.
It’s coming to that time of year. Through the last part of winter you feel as if you have become dormant, but ahead are sunny days. It’s a sunny day today. I have a steak defrosting and I’ll flip it onto the barbie later tonight. It’s Derby Day too, the festive beginning to a festive week in Melbourne.
I went for a stroll along Hampton street early this morning to the post office at the far end. On my way back I passed by a boutique in which there must have been 10-12 fashionably attired women getting their hair coiffed or having make-up carefully applied by the experts inside. Fancy that I thought, though I wasn’t surprised. Later those same women will grace the members enclosure at Flemington, looking glamorous and feeling mighty. I’ve been there too, though minus the make-up and wearing a suit and not a frock, but it’s a grand occasion nonetheless, and there’s even some decent horses running around.
I bought my bread at the good bakery, did my shopping, bought a lotto ticket for luck, with a newspaper, and returned home.
Time to go. Pink Floyd are playing.