Listening to Nick Drake. Not ready for Monday yet and Nick Drake's depressing loveliness is spot on.
Got an email today from someone wanting one of Timothy Gallagher's books Narcissus Goes A-Courting. There is an chapter from it on my site called To The Lighthouse (Prison Spell), and an appreciation of Tim by me too. It brought some of the memories of him and his death back to me today. It is always tough when one of your best friends dies young. He had an amazing lust for life, and there was so much more to be written. Once the book was published I think he gave himself permission to die.
Remembered hanging out with him at the London Lighthouse (refered to in the title of the piece above). Afternoons drinking coffee and making up incredibly complicated plans and schemes, which would result in our fame, fortune and literary immortality. Unfortunately I've not yet been able to do much to assure that for him and I do feel guilty somehow. I wonder what he would have done with the years I've had that he never did. Maybe fate took the wrong writer.
Otherwise another quiet day doing next to nothing. I had a swim and small bike ride to wake myself up a bit and sent some poems to rival but v. cool website called Zuzu's Petals. Also laundry and shopping. Otherwise I felt somewhat empty and devoid of inspiration. I need to do something interesting SOON.
My long lost schoolfriend Shaila who now lives in Hong Kong sent me a story by her son Chris, which was an enjoyable parody of Lord of the Rings. I read LotR young too, but to me it was a kind of sacred text the idea of parodying it wouldn't even have occurred to me.
Got an email today from someone wanting one of Timothy Gallagher's books Narcissus Goes A-Courting. There is an chapter from it on my site called To The Lighthouse (Prison Spell), and an appreciation of Tim by me too. It brought some of the memories of him and his death back to me today. It is always tough when one of your best friends dies young. He had an amazing lust for life, and there was so much more to be written. Once the book was published I think he gave himself permission to die.
Remembered hanging out with him at the London Lighthouse (refered to in the title of the piece above). Afternoons drinking coffee and making up incredibly complicated plans and schemes, which would result in our fame, fortune and literary immortality. Unfortunately I've not yet been able to do much to assure that for him and I do feel guilty somehow. I wonder what he would have done with the years I've had that he never did. Maybe fate took the wrong writer.
Otherwise another quiet day doing next to nothing. I had a swim and small bike ride to wake myself up a bit and sent some poems to rival but v. cool website called Zuzu's Petals. Also laundry and shopping. Otherwise I felt somewhat empty and devoid of inspiration. I need to do something interesting SOON.
My long lost schoolfriend Shaila who now lives in Hong Kong sent me a story by her son Chris, which was an enjoyable parody of Lord of the Rings. I read LotR young too, but to me it was a kind of sacred text the idea of parodying it wouldn't even have occurred to me.
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