Weeks of deliberation, weeks of thought, weeks of experiment. Only, perhaps, in the latter days did we (?) succeed. After all the talk, the constant talk, became quite irrelevant in practice. But then I thought that would be the only way with a piece like BLISS. For all the supposition of others, at the end of the day you look after your own work and get on with it; as opposed to watching someone else’s, waiting for them to fall or make an unforced choice. Whilst all the time hiding one’s own insecurity. I come to discover that those who make the most noise in the rehearsal room are the one’s you’ve got to watch on stage. Usually they’ll be looking no further than their own reputation and how they look on the night. Forget the story –

Burnt material on a metal fence –

Trying to control the process too much mean inevitably it will run away from you, evade you as it feels hounded – you can never take the process of playmaking so seriously, otherwise it becomes meaningless. If that seems like a dichotomy, well the whole point surely is play and surprise.

- - - - - -

Crossbarrow; grey waters; tree line bending in the century old onslaught of the wind –

Gentle, rhythmic whistling never falters, the drier sound of the turbine beneath, facing west –

OLDSIDE – muscle shells, cuttlefish pouches in the kelp, a lone curlew’s call, the detritus of fireworks launched – the individual speeds of each turbine tells them apart; some slow, almost giving up; others fast, characterised by pace – and the palpable sense of bleakness, of death even – dark, jagged stones erupting form the Solway, damaged concrete breakwaters like bomb damaged parts, reddish dust and twisted metal – resonance at the core, surrounded by the turbines, an embracing noise – a small group of horses nearby watching the dim orange tethers and the odd grey light late afternoon away toward Galloway -

Alone across the undulating cliffs, a postman toking on a large, fat cigar doing his round, leaving thin, blue clouds behind him –

Workington – October 2006