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Flight

アーティスト：Peter Hammill  アルバム：A Black Box 

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i) Flying Blind I always forget how crazy things are so sometimes it catches me off my guard when they make sense. The line on the road trail the arrow in the sky, I search for the mote in my brother's eye beneath the pence... a time of blunt instruments. Still uncertain when I've woken or what constitutes a conscious mind, though the thought remains unspoken I know I'm flying blind. Breaking into cold sweat on the white-hot coals the pennies from heaven drop through my soul: it don't relent. At the back end of dreams I'm amazed to awake... I offer my theories but just can't shake that seventh sense to which there's no defense. It seemed the time was for action, it seemed so cool to be that kind... my tongue writhed to form some retraction but I knew I was flying blind. I want things to be fast, down to the power-dive; I want the zero-gravity heroes to play dead, but stay alive. We want it to be slow, all the way to stall; we talk about a thousand things that never change at all. No, it never change... It was then that I knew I'd been thoughtless, something had slipped my mind: I'd strapped myself into the Fortress but the Fortress was flying blind. We got full clearance, so someone down there ought to know the truth of our disappearance - If even that still shows it accuses and blames me, but nothing was quite what it seemed. Sometimes things work out so strangely that it might as well all be dreamed. ii) The White Cane Fandango The White Cane Fandango in Morse code, try to shake through the message, shake the load; only venial sin, running on the spot till the dance begins. Where does a man go when the muscles cramp? Try to write out a postcard on a postage stamp with a drawing pin punching out the Braille for the whole within? Upset the contango on your future stock; paying backwardation, hold onto what you've got - such a sideways grin! Some day you may need to trade that in. If we ride this right the future will fall in our hands. If we survive the flight the future will work out - nothing's that black and white. iii) Control The colour-coded charts are spread, but we're still gliding deep into the red, the radio is dead every valve blown open. The radar screen flicks monochrome, air traffic controller wants to get on home, waiting for a phone call to release him from responsibility. Nobody goes to see him any more except for the man from the ministry. He wanted to be, he wanted to be the man at the helm, in command of the flightpath; he's flying a chair, quite beyond control; he's going to have just one more chance at a barrel roll. All in a dream, all as a dream, the colours too bright, the music too deafening - the black-out world has just begun to show. These cracked-out words I offer... but I still don't know. Cool blue suffuse the colour gun - oh come in, come in number one: your time's nearly run. Speed-freeze the frame, the present and the past hold fast.... It's too fast, the thing don't,



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