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Small Hours

Sometime in 1977 John Martyn recorded a piece of music in the middle of a Berkshire field. He recorded it in the small hours and if you listen to the track carefully you can hear the sound of a train in the distance and geese on a nearby lake disturbed by the noise. I have never been to a field in Berkshire in the small hours or at any other time for that matter but nonetheless I have a strange feeling of remembering, of connected nostalgia to the recording John Martyn made there.

It is a feeling that has stayed with me ever since first hearing it, the train has long since passed and the geese are silent. Yet there is something about that it is with me every time I scratch away with pencil on paper, every time I try and connect the thoughts, however loosely and hint at meaning.

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I feel so bad for people who think cats don't love you. cats are such incredibly loving creatures and u have never felt the joy of being loved by a cat

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ha?

every single person who reblogs this

every

single

person

will get “doot doot” in their ask box

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Title

I really need to find a good theme for this stupid blog. They're still as difficult to come by as a remember over a decade ago lmao.

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thinking about all the “small” art that’s ever existed. songs that were only ever sung in one village. stories written by children that got lost in the shuffle. personal paintings that didn’t survive the test of time. how they affected the lives of just a few, but still existed, still mattered to someone.