A pair of black cotton Peter Werth trunks, which disintegrated in the sea, August 1994.
There’s a moment, if you’re lucky, when someone you don’t know as well as you’d like to looks like the most beautiful person on earth. It flows through you, as the cold waves crash into the two of you, rising and fall with the tide in the bay, your hair pushed back and the salt stinging your eyes.
The long drive back to London that night, sitting briefly in the dark outside her house, clumsily speaking your mind. The awkward, ghastly, necessary risk of it. Of love.
Back at home, listening to Jeff Buckley's Live at Sin-e, dizzy with it. Three days later, Thursday 1st September, seeing him sing at The Garage; then bunking off work together the next day to see him sing in Rough Trade round the corner, packed tight among the record shelves, opening with “What will you say when you see my face?” Ten minutes earlier we’d raised eyebrows of greeting as he smoked by the wall outside, unnoticed by the girls in the street who would fall in love with him in the time to come.
His obituary from The Times is in the desk drawer in front of me right now. Wading into the Wolf River, sucked under by the wake. Dizzy with it.
There’s a moment, if you’re lucky, when someone you don’t know as well as you’d like to looks like the most beautiful person on earth. It flows through you, as the cold waves crash into the two of you, rising and fall with the tide in the bay, your hair pushed back and the salt stinging your eyes.
The long drive back to London that night, sitting briefly in the dark outside her house, clumsily speaking your mind. The awkward, ghastly, necessary risk of it. Of love.
Back at home, listening to Jeff Buckley's Live at Sin-e, dizzy with it. Three days later, Thursday 1st September, seeing him sing at The Garage; then bunking off work together the next day to see him sing in Rough Trade round the corner, packed tight among the record shelves, opening with “What will you say when you see my face?” Ten minutes earlier we’d raised eyebrows of greeting as he smoked by the wall outside, unnoticed by the girls in the street who would fall in love with him in the time to come.
His obituary from The Times is in the desk drawer in front of me right now. Wading into the Wolf River, sucked under by the wake. Dizzy with it.
Immersive, exquisite x
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