Dearest Ernest

Towards the duckpond of humility. The day begins, the year almost awakens, the battle of Alamo is almost won - revolution calls. Well work beckons, summons, haunts and flirts. I stoop loop the loop and who? Who. Its Just a simple call, the birdsong of the indecisive, the tropical heat of the nausea of fear, will I disappear? Oh dear. Its between you and me you know, its not something I want everyone to know, troubling times. Troubling times these. For me. I thought perhaps we could ignore the consequences, but times got a habit of recurring and gaining restitution on your time, and mine. Our time. Burning the history of Russia's soil in our motorcars. Burning the past to power my IBook  G4. Maybe I want peace, but it seems so very quiet.

My dear friend Ernie,

I am watching a man named Marlowe, private dick, in this film noir movie -Farewell, My Lovely- I am led to believe the film is based on a novel written by this Raymond Chandler, maybe I am right. 

'why me? Because I'm handy and know how to use a gun, or just because I wear pants?'

'If I knew what everything I said meant, I would be a genius'

The day after boxing day, 2009, I am in Hackney just off Mare Street. The end of the year, soon we start the last 12 month stretch of the decade, I am coming out of the Christmas coma and starting to feel restless. Tomorrow I begin to live again. 2010, sounds amazing, its a year from a comic book, and I am working on the soundtrack. 

'Was it murder? Or something serious?'