he knew this air, knew this monumental procession of cloud rain hangs in the air without pressure or promise but I don’t know how he knew the rain or this ragged coastline in a way that was his alone, or knew the tangle of lives on most mornings for a dozen years I saw him sit on the barstool at Brazil and Rex would say, the wit and wisdom of David Peterson: Never eat anything bigger than your head and Never put anything smaller than your elbow in your ear while Dave read the paper, measured the bites of his breakfast, drank his coffee, and he and Rex grumped about the world and state of business Dave turning his face sideways to comment, bringing his voice up to air from a certain depth, a depth of certainty. The absence of him is hard and present. After Brazil, for a baker’s dozen years he was my most regular coffee client, I measured my consistency by his. Always knowing I could rely on him to let me know if the quality of service suffered from changes in circumstance—tangle. The lives he kept me updated with. The years passed. He never asked to be celebrated, Never asked for the praise he was due as solo dad to his two children for the way they prospered—he told me how they were doing, how they did. Had my admiration always, and I imagine many were and are impressed because he was an impressive man, whose good works were never good works and he kept out of the light they reflected on him. He never commanded the respect shown him. A look was enough, as others are better placed to say, in his profession also outside of the light his fingers moving over the controls in the little light on the desk, wearing black, tweaking the sound to the precise spec of the gear so it got the praise not him. He would not ask to be celebrated like this but I ask myself what it is to do right by him and this writing is my work, Dave. The rain that was pendant fell for a while and has passed, clouds have dispersed. I have asked about the air: what does it mean to have breathed a while in it and then not to be? not to be present in it and sharing in it, the tangle of lives—Never leave a lead tangled. A cable has a memory of being twisted it needs time in the heat of the sun to lose for it to be coiled. It means a certain amount of work needs to be done, then a little sleep, before it is, for it to be, perfect. — for David Peterson (d. 30 December 2020) [Simon Taylor, 2 January 2021]
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