Heavy Words

Heavy Words   

 

‘Nothing’

‘Nothing will come of nothing. You’re approaching this all wrong,’ she said.

‘Is there a right way? I don’t know.’

She never missed a beat. ‘What would you do if you did know?’

I looked up. 

‘Anything?’ she asked again.

‘Not since you last asked.’

 

The post Strid Spring surge at least precluded an absolute silence.

We hadn’t had a hit for 7 years. Cynthia accused me of not being bothered.

Our last hit  – ‘Forget what you don’t want to remember’ -  made a certain level of money meaning we hadn’t needed to work since. I never knew if it was a solution or a problem.

 

I recall meeting Cynthia at a seminar on the philosophy of memory. That’s what gave us the idea for the single. It was love at first sound, sitting in her room, the iPhone on shuffle, our tastes so similar I couldn’t tell if my phone or her’s was playing.

 

It was my idea to leave as soon as we had the hit. We’d finished the first year module on logic, it makes more sense to leave now I said, do you think we can make more money from music or philosophy?

 

It was her idea to take this riverside house with the residue of the royalty stream, the flow of the river, flow of lyrics, the melody of water.

 

‘Do you ever feel guilty?’ she asked me in the evening.

‘Apropos of what?’

‘It was your idea to leave University. The money is running out,  we’re one hit wonders.’

 

The sound of the current, the noise of the guilt drowned out words and sleep. I looked out of the window at the river at night. It was lateish March, the equality of night and day,   no delineation between water and sky.

 

I was back out on the river bank early, engrossed in staring at the water, the sun not powerful enough to turn it blue until mid-morning.

Cythnia crunched down the path, you forgot something she said, pushing a notebook at me, the pages as white as my face.

 

We’d always written together, usually with a notebook each, music and lyrics, interchangeable roles. It had worked before. I no longer knew what the roles were.

 

‘There is a difference between staring and contemplation,’ she observed, as my gaze returned to the river’s indifference.

 

‘I thought I’d sit here without a notebook for a while,’ I said.

 

She took the notebook away from me and immediately began writing words, sentences, stream of consciousness pace. I smiled at her, we were back in business. I began picturing the chords it would be my job to fit underneath at the keyboard later.

 

‘What are you smiling at?’ she said, throwing the notebook onto the river bank. It teetered on the edge, about to fall in, about to rest safely, rocking like that bus I’d seen in a film 50% over a ravine edge.

 

Cynthia receded up the gravel path. A kingfisher flew into the almost silence and lost a game of stare with me.

 

I made up the notebook’s mind to stay on the bank and found a blank page after Cynthia’s scrawl.

 

My pen hovered, landed and began to move.

 

‘Time is blue, days are black, nights are white,

Fly back, sing everything is going to be alright’

 

Needs work, I said out loud to myself. More words appeared, the page became more black than white.

 

I didn’t hear Cynthia return until I noticed the page half in shadow.

I stopped editing, turned, presuming my smile would be mirrored.

 

‘I thought you’d be pleased,’  I said as she snatched the notebook back.

 

Cynthia opened the book at the first page before her scrawl.

‘Have you been reading my stuff?’

‘Of course not,’ I replied. The water seemed to have turned back to black.

‘Look,’ she said. On the page before her scrawl she’d written a title in capital letters: University Re-Application, Personal Statement.

 

‘Yeah, maybe not the catchiest title’ I said, ‘ I’m sure we can…’

 

The power of Cynthia’s throw was astonishing. The notebook landed mid-stream, the flutter of pages attracting the attention of a bird on the opposite bank. I glimpsed the blue as the bird spread then retracted its wings in one movement, staring at the unfloating words. I looked away first.

-

 

JK Ilkley writers at Ilkley lit fest fringe 8.10.’15 abc