hello 137 by Tony Chapman


Outside birds sing … dawn chorus … faint light appears through the skylight above me … a hum and the faint tap of my Spen stylus … me trying to write about what is in this moment

… tiredness behind my eyes …

apps are the Alladins cave … I lie awake all night searching for more and more … I always come back to Snotes. Must leave this device downstairs at night – must!

Feel better for writing about it all though –  money low again – gig tomorrow night with  bass player – should sleep – will have to cancel lesson tomorrow – no time for me … hardly – only way to get time for me is to lie in bed at night writing on my device … I have no children to carry my genes on – how strange – this particular billion years old evolutionary line – ends here – with me …

and yet, as there is only this moment what does it really matter?

l lie in bed waiting for Godot … oh how far does it go? – this spirit and spiral the past is just a memory, the future is ? … I close this ragged door and the pitiful strangers pass through … they collide and ricoche across tragic ballroom floors, they dance heavily on the poished wood, their heavy, muddy boots, dragging.

Where are they/we now?…  our apples smelling over-ripe, in their orange boxes, stored on the dry, dusty floor of the woodshed at the bottom of that muddy track .

oh, take these blinkers from my eyes
… let me see again
… through this silly, rattling rain, hammering lightly on the corrugated iron of the goat’s shed at bottom of the garden. And beyond the shed: the ditch and beyond the ditch: the field, where the black and white cows sometimes ran …

…oh yesterday is gone and I’m learning,
… who knows maybe I’II have a family yet?

… and maybe there is another lifetime, endless Planet Earths, in endless, different dimensions, and us, merely transfering from one to another.

… and my own father’s life has finally reached the end … God bless him… it is so wierd.

We passed the shop that sold lavender.


We passed it on the way to the Swiss Mountains. Oh, how they chortled and sang.

“making it” with my music

I am Tony Chapman. … I am still trying to “make it” with my music and art and creative writing. I’m not giving up … this is the story of my journey from here on, AS IT TAKES PLACE these are my footsteps as I plant them… ahead of me lies an unbroken beach of warm sand or an unbroken plain of cold snow… well… first footstep…here l go!

I have found out from googling:

1. you have to have a brand. (this isn’t a commercial sell out … it can come from who you are, what you have to offer, in an honest way, but you should

be conscious of it. Then you can make it consistent, a kind of umbrella over all the elements of your art/ music / writing or whatever you have to offer.

2. More later…

Call me … but only as the crow flies.

First, create an airport departure lounge, decorate it with a thousand yellow watering cans and sign it in the top left corner in gold lettering.

Next, with no climatic considerations, plant it at the center of a field of a thousand red sunflowers, sprinkle it with potash and from a respectable distance, watch it grow.


The Concrete girders span


the 2 concrete girders span the Atlantic Ocean … 2 hybrids are crossIng them on all fours flaming torches stuck in the back pockets of their paint-stained overalls.

” lts hard to balance today, Jack” shouts Jules.

” Yes, Jack, l find this hurricane force wind a little disconcerting’ ”

” Yes, Jules …  and, to be quite candid, I wish these concrete girders were a little wider. The width of a matchbox doesn’t leave much room for manoever … ”

” No, Jack … and this hurrican force wind buffets us relentlessly .. we have to be circus balancing acts to stay on these two extremly narrow girders! ”

” Yes, Jules, and crawling hundreds of miles to the other side without sustainance ,  shelter, or even a tea- break … well it gets me quite irritated…”  ”

“Me too, Jack … its all I can do to stay on this narrow girder… ” yelled Jules, above the crashing of waves and the  thundering of the gale…

The hurricane-force wind continued to irritate the two balancing, slowly inching their way forward, hybirds, dressed in their, by now, soaking wet overalls.

Terrible infants juggle fishnet-green bottles under sad, lime-green oaktrees, cisterns balanced on their sea-green heads.


Christmas swings onto focus, the chiseling undertakers rent long, sad race-courses to walk on and they collide with other hypocrites out for a ridiculous Sunday  stroll … too.