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You're Nobody's Producer

The glow of the old school CRT monitor cast an almost sacred light on our faces, and later the Philips TV, the screen for a digital aurora in the box-room. I remember the specific thrum of the PlayStation, the click of its disc drive, and the rhythmic, almost hypnotic sequence of button presses as I meticulously layered beats and melodies. This was for his GCSE music project, a task he’d presented with a shrug and an almost imperceptible plea for help. He didn't do or say much; he rarely did. He just sat there, knees pulled up to his chest on the floor, watching me, a silent, still observer as I sculpted a rudimentary track from the limited palette of an early 2000s music creation game. His presence was like a barely perceptible hum in the room, a quiet witness to the genesis of something out of nothing. I remember thinking, in that precise moment, that he was involved. Not creatively, not actively, but his quiet watchfulness, his unblinking gaze, felt like a silent endorsement, ...
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Whistle a Tune of Twinkle

Whistle a Tune of Twinkle




Whistle a tune of twinkle,
A melody in the night,
With stars up in the heavens,
That sparkle pure and bright.

The moon is softly glowing,
As shadows dance and sway,
While fireflies are drifting,
In their own sweet ballet.

There’s music in the garden,
Where dreams and laughter play,
With whispers of the breezes,
To guide us on our way.

So whistle a tune of twinkle,
Let joy and magic soar,
For every note is precious,
And life’s a song to explore!




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