Listen to the silence
an extract from a permanently unfinished
manuscript entitled "Out there is moving
but I'm still in here".
And so, here. And so, to make some promises that
cannot be kept. And so, to speak. And so, wonder.
I am wondering what to write about Joy Divison,
or to be exact, what exactly to write about Joy
Division this time. How exact can I be? How exact
should I be? I've been writing about Joy Division all
my adult life; all my writing life; all my life. In many
ways (and this is one way) everything I've ever
written has been about Joy Division. (Let me
explain, eventually... if I can... if I should...).
Everything they make me feel - or suggest I feel - is a
central metaphor for everything I feel, about me, the world,
music, emotion, love, death, time, God, and so on. And so,
now I come to think about it, this is how exact I am going
And so, in the ways (count the ways) that pop music
opens you up and explains things (and t/fore closes you
down and unexplains things, which is so part of the still
moving thrill that pop zips and unzips in its own time and
space) then shall we say for the sake of this promise that
when I was fourteen Marc BoIan with a wave of his magic
wand showed me the light and then at another age Joy
Division - only my age, the fuckers, what did they know of
this world let alone any other(s) - showed me with a dizzy-
ing dip of the mind the dark.
And so here are the extremes of pop: the masking
of the world of appearances, and the unmasking.