The Ballad of Paul Robbie
Last night waiting to fall asleep I thought of writing something for my dad. I like to work on thoughts, when I’m not awake, so they come more easily when I am. In my dream I was scanning a rocky beach for creatures, treasures, something other than wet sand. I came to a massive conch, lodged between rocks. I climbed above it, feet on either side, deep squat and pull it released and fell to the shore. The hermit inside scurried to the water, looked back at me and yelled ‘Yoko’s a twat!’ I don’t know what that was about but it wasn’t about my father. It didn’t mention the cats. There was nothing about his whistle in a crowd that I can still hear, even in the streets of Paris. The way he would keep his nails long to pick at the strings of a guitar. No mention of my sketch book where he scratched the movement of a wild mustang from memory and graphite. Not a murmur about his fear of death or his debilitating reaction to it. No beards. No vintage t’s. No perfectly timed I’m Rick James bitch. So instead I got out of bed opened my phone to a black screened video and pressed play. And in the echo of an empty room, an ocean away, his chords come in strong and practiced. Christ you know it ain't easy You know how hard it can be The way things are going They’re gonna crucify me.
Something other than wet sand really got me