So … the “clinical depression concept album” Good Friday will come with the memoir. I talk about writing the album in the book. I also talk about writing this new song “Something Beautiful” that will be extra/hidden track on the album. It’s about love so here’s a little bit of the soppy stuff from the memoir. The below section comes early on in the book when I am still in hospital and VERY broken.
Ruth and The Sea
I see her on a hilltop, looking out to the sea. The wind catches her hair and she smiles.
I have been told that Ruth is on a Camino. She went on one last year, a sort of pilgrimage through Spain, to the coast. I made her a collection of songs to listen to as she walked.
In between the songs I dropped in little bits of me chatting and other stuff. One or two of my poems, a comedy sketch I recorded, and general ponderings. As I sit here writing this, I have just listened to these ramblings again.
Journeys and holidays are the main themes. I also talk about yearnings and ‘spiritual’ journeys, and all that hippy stuff. In my defence I do underpin the whole thing with the odd wink or smirk. A particularly moving song runs straight into “Kyle’s Mum’s A Bitch” sung by Cartman from South Park, for no other reason than it makes me laugh and I think it will make her laugh too.
Listening to it again, just now, it did make me smile. And yes, I am recognisably myself. A bit poetic, a bit cheeky, desperately self obsessed, the same slightly lost, navel gazing guy.
But there are other things that don’t quite match up. The voice isn’t quite the same. Even now, after all this time, the voice then sounds stronger, higher, lighter …. younger. And when I do make myself laugh …then … now … that’s when things really start to jar.
I still have the henchman laugh, I still have this weird laugh.
Back then I sound great. I was obviously having a good day, and I sound happy, healthy. My voice is at its natural pitch, and not this slightly lower alternative with its yuk yuk yuk guffaw.
And the things I recount, the memories …. I can remember them, but they don’t really feel like mine anymore. They feel like this other Dave’s memories. They are no longer as immediate as they were. It feels a bit like it happened to someone else. As if the guy I’m listening to, and the guy I am now, sitting at this keyboard, are … I don’t know … twins? Identical twins, yes, but still two separate people. The same, yet subtly, and fundamentally different.
There is an instance on the last section of chat when the doorbell goes.
And it’s her. It’s Ruth.
I gasped. I’d forgotten all about this. I turned it up, leant forward, and listened intently as young healthy Dave, laughing and joking all the time, made Ruth give herself some advice for the journey she was about to go on, all those years ago.
She wouldn’t so I cajoled. We happily bickered and laughed.
It sounded so … so nice, so natural, so close.
So … gone.
So … anyway lets get back to the matter in hand. Let’s shed all these Daves: the happy healthy Dave of the past, the guy I am now (sitting at this keyboard) and let’s get back, back to the hospital. Back to broken Dave.
As he sits in his hospital bed, thinking of a girl on a pilgrimage, he remembers that closeness and misses it.
He doesn’t know what’s happened yet, and why he can never have that closeness again. But as he sits in his bed, dreaming of a girl in Spain (who isn’t even there), he misses her.
And as I write this, I still miss her too.