In the Interim w/

Dear Pom,

While I’m glad to read I reached you, I do hope you’re listening. I’m anxious you don’t get this backwards; I wish you wouldn’t get the wrong ideas.

I write the show notes now. Neither a performer nor an entertainer. More usually an actor. Those minutes, sometimes six, rarely seven, but small nonetheless, are gone.

I do not prey on an audience for sport, or stalk large herds for game. I will not become a community leader. As I’ve said, the people are too much for me and I’d rather hate to need them.

Now a word from our sponsor, Pom, before we get into the meat of this letter. Prixar Movies are coming soon for all you assholes and grifters of every sexuality and gender — whatever you hate most, this is your place to boo.

Pom, you look around and say that’s nice, and have you thought of moving? Have you got an advance copy? Yes, an advanced set of moves for the advertisements you’ll be moving. I’m glad you asked. Take a look at the channel name I took for lack of sensible financial planning, never mind backing. I am dreaming always, Pom, of just retreat from all which I imagine, largely amounting to bad habits.

Then someone steps up to ask would you like a roll, love, or a bottle of water. It’s easier than change, I suppose. The bookmaker winks while feigning sheepishness. I could give you two bin liners full of emptied ashed in cans. There’s a lot of that going around.

I no longer simply recycle. Getting from the car to the door is a battle, and every other hand is sticky. Sometimes out of laziness, creative licence, or — if I were bragging — common decency, I donate a bag to the nice Chinese lady who speaks to me, not in English, but registers or lodges a humble gratitude with me.

To that extent, I believe we all should do exactly as we desire to do. Why? Because to wake up screaming is the worst way to be waking. This, and only this, is the reason I won’t go roaring up the town. I would rather be a priest, beardy and all, and take the coins you shake and parade shook to find you following down the road so far. Not before then should you start asking, calling, and answering. And you will not help but feel vital when you spy me salivating at the end of a corridor, in an alcove, where there is no wardrobe, just a spacious, candlelit and cushioned confessional box. Confession becomes love. You get the picture. I tried other things but didn’t like them. My whims were changed as sails. I must pick the lines back up, like a relentless collector before their value is trampled on, tied down on train tracks and released before the train can come. What nightmares cross my mind. How much I’ve wanted to quit. It’s nothing you’d see through my eyes or manically nervous demeanour beneath a well-crafted mask. What is theatrically staged has no beginning or end. I’m held captive by the locals. There’s hardly a neighbour who wouldn’t shoot, or sell you chances until the light was over, and one day you might become one of them, cut loose. The first time I died I felt like the devil at Blake’s Doors of Perception. Bare from plucking, but carried by a rain in a windy breeze, and haze, and explosive green grass. Only for the man to tell me chickens don’t fly. Not from here. Pom, you get the picture. My notes become illegible. They should have taught me nice handwriting or touch typing for all the good it would do. Not applied maths or business studies, or things which make me puke because I’d rather be puking. More than this, I am oozing with desire and curiosity for beautiful individuals. More than any, my love and curly girl Šarūnė of Otherworld, also on Éist.

Because you asked, my father gave me the pen, even if he didn’t know it. Anyway, it was thrilling to catch your attention, Pom. Do write again. To find you seated inside my attention heartens me. I appreciate your turn to absurdity, even if it is new to you.

Please share my letter with others. I only share yours with my closest collaborators. Like me, you must squeeze our correspondence to your breast. Unlike me, you must not try to hold and keep it.

Things can only get better, Pom.

With deepest gratitude, Paul

P.S / Tracklist

Things Can Only Get Better / D:Ream Fabienk / Angine de Poitrine Bigmouth / Underworld Where Next Columbus? / Jeffrey Lewis / 12 Crass Songs Where’s Me Jumper? / Sultans of Ping F.C. Civilisation / Danny Kaye & the Andrews Sisters Land Ho! and Maggie M’Gill / The Doors / Morrison Hotel Bob Dylan’s 115th Dream / Bringing It All Back Home New Shoes / Paolo Nutini Tzantza (Simple Symmetry Remix) / Nicola Cruz Bonus Track / for the Listeners