Crazy Love

The earliest memory i have of going up to town with my father, we lived outside of London, is marked by seeing young boys, mudlarks probably, digging in the low-tide-Thames mud for coins thrown from one of the bridges. The image is so alien to anything i see now in London, at least near the bridges in the centre of town, that i sometimes think that the experience happened not to me but in a cinema someplace.

I knew my father for 28 years, about 23 if you subtract the years of distant and unclear sensations. Krissie i have known for as long and each moment feels like it was yesterday.

My earliest memory with you, because i hope one day you will read this,is standing in London both uncertain to hug but expressing through our excited greeting the hope for a future together.

There are so many individual moments that demand to be heard when i think back that it is easier, for now, to hold them inside.

A few days ago i posted a picture of a bronze statuette, and if you look closely, somewhere near the stamp that once had an image of a juggling W.C.Fields, you will find your own reflection.

And i spoke on sunday of Van Morrison, whom i didn't seem to know until the week we fell in love when the radio seemed to play nothing else.

I can hear her heart beat from a thousand miles
And the heavens open every time she smiles
And when I come to her that's where I belong
Yet I'm running to her like a river's song