Rocking it up at Sam Webb’s last night. I did a shaky first‑time performance of an old‑new song called You Can Find It in the Moon. Straight out of my Mad Hatters days, you really can’t make this stuff up. Threw in a few other tunes as well. It’s tough doing a new song every week…
In fact, I’m thinking a song has to be over 75% there before it’s worth bringing out. By that I mean a good song is only half of it, the rest is in the performance
Other songs included Teach Me Peace, (Currently very fitting) Come to the Ball, Waiting to Cross the Road.
In the evening what you have to do: Accept the reality of what has happened and move on to the next step. Put the light switch on, stop this messing around. Now I feel like I am running— We all know what it’s worth.
My heart aches, aches with longing, For what has passed and now I cannot go.
Work fills my consciousness; to switch it off should be so easy in my work, but we never… Nothing that is everything, double by four. Would like to move on to some— This is personal, set it in a play.
For what has passed and now I cannot go. My heart aches, aches with longing.
Speed seems to be the essence. As I hold my head, pressure of it has to part. Caterpillar to butterfly— In this thought, in this world. How much can it take? Watch the people on the bombs. The punishment with a flick of the switch.
There is a man with talent. I lost it about then, overtaken. Get up today in the afternoon— Lost it about then. Get up today in the afternoon.
In play format: Title: The Switch
Character: A solitary figure pacing a sparse, dimly lit room. The atmosphere is electric, time fragmented.
Monologue:
(Lights dim. A soft hum in the background. The figure stands center stage, wrestling with a memory.)
In the evening, you face it. Reality. Cold, confirmed, inevitable. And then you move. Not forward—just… to the next step.
You flick the light switch like it means something. Like illumination will dissolve regret. I’m running. I don’t know where, but it’s fast. Everyone knows what it’s worth— Whatever it is.
(Pause. A breath.)
My heart aches. Not in the poetic way. In the gritty way. A longing that scrapes bone. What’s passed is locked. No way back. Work takes over. It should be easy—I’m good at what I do. But “easy” is a word we’ve misplaced.
(Steps forward.)
Everything doubled, multiplied by silence. I want to move. Somewhere new. Maybe this is a play—maybe I am the playwright. And still… My heart aches. Same refrain. Same truth. Speed. That’s how we survive now. The pressure, the shift. Caterpillar to butterfly, sure— But what if the wings rip on the way out? Bombs drop in a world that doesn’t blink. Punishment comes with a flick of a switch. Talent unnoticed. I was overtaken. A moment. A blur. Got up in the afternoon and the day was already gone.
