Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter


Day 240

Last night, when M went to pick up A from work, the house was utterly silent (we’d paused a film we’d started watching), and I took great pleasure in wandering round downstairs and listening to the sharpened and precise sounds my movements made – feet on the floor, breathing, the floor creaking in different places, and differently in those different places, picking up and putting down glasses and other objects, the shiver of a cigarette paper being rolled up tightly around a thin cylinder of tobacco, the gentle clunk of the back door when I pulled it closed after I’d stepped outside, then the swish of pulling it open to step back into the house, and the even more solid clunk of closing. These are the sounds of solitude, and I revelled in them. And for a moment pretended I was in a huge house in Provence or coastal Italy (or even Venice, actually) or Agios Nikolaos all on my own. But only for a moment. I wouldn’t really want to be on my own. Just have my own wing. Oh, such materialistic thoughts. It’s probably true to say that many films preach capitalism at us. Rabbit hole.

I’ve been pre-recording Episode 3 of my 12-inch vinyl collection, and will carry on doing that presently. It’s fun to do, even though not quite the same as doing live shows. But it still lets me listen to a lot of my fave music through the headphones and loudly which is all anyone could want, really, isn’t it?

Another slow day, just pottering and doing no much. I have now moved the electronic keyboard from one of the sheds into the office, so I can start just unwinding with the few melodies I can play (badly), something I always used to do in moments of high stress or anxiety.

Let that be that.




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