Listening to some hitherto unknown Bruce Springsteen-album whilst working from home. It’s a stray off of his ‘Greatest Hits’ I got as a gift from Sis some decade ago (if memory serves me correctly), but it’s worthy material – of course it is. Has me appreciating my gift for diving into unknown material at an extended age. It’s that old saying of ‘you stop reading when you reach twenty-five’ bugs me from time to time. I don’t desire to end up like that. I can appreciate the security some must find in it. To know what you got and stick by it. Yet it also prevents new discoveries just as grand, does it not. Pocket philosophy, I know. But a point to make whenever one gets the chance. The intro to “The River”, the 1985-live record, where he talks about his youth, his long hair, his draft notice, is wonderful. Simply blows me away. ~~~ I remember the construction-work well. The old man doing this, doing that, doing all and everything needed. I remember him laying bricks with the builders, remember him putting the power in, installing the windows. Laying the roof. Totally ignorant about his own safety, mostly. And the bricks stacked in the crates, wrapped in thick-layered industrial plastic. Couldn’t move them myself, but they had been conviniently arranged to form a maze, with a cave to it if you put a board on top of four or five of these things. I admired him then, as I do now. ~~~ I remember the quiet. So much of it. Broken by the so distant hums of the truck engines roaring along the highway. Served much to remind one of the distances. Recall whistling across the fields to the kid next house, half a mile away. Never the chance of an ecco, all sounds muffled by the corn, towering, blowing in the wind. And the Summers were dry, ready to crackle. I remember getting in the back of the folks’ Volvo and going to Bjerregrav, where we passed the corner to the hilly woods and the sun bounced on and off the windows when it saw its chance from in between the tall trees. It was, in short, magic. Pure. The way I conceived it. By imagination. An eye to details. A piece of memory to spend. Mostly imagination. ~~~ …And I think this is why I tire so easily, because of the distances of then, because of the quiet which had me hanging on to every sound, every motion, as something out of the calm to be noticed, taken to heart. I can’t walk for many yards in a museum before I tire with the impressions, tire to wanting to lie down on the floor and go to sleep. Can keep up with 3 or 4 conversations simultaniously, and near the end of them I’m exhausted, filled up. Is this a blessing? It’s here to stay. I value it. Keeps my mind turning. I am never bored, haven’t been for years. ~~~ Everything progresses at a steady pace. The movie, work, my life, the movie. Have done some soul-comforting on Dennis’ behalf; as his progression towards the conclusion of his own film production leaves him with much to be desired. Against force majour there’s little to do but dive around the corner and wait for the second wind to come along, and he’s up against his share of elemental rage. He’ll be alright I’m sure. ~~~ Tomorrow Wednesday. Am hoping for a quite day.