Saturday morning finds me cheerful but aching and illish. Anton popped by this morning made him listen to some Brian Eno. Still liking the idea that you can live in a place where friends can drop in on you for a cup of tea after going to the shops. Reminds me of being in Guernsey as a child, dropping in with my Grandfather on relatives nearby.
Had a bit of a works bash on Thursday night and flirted my way around the room full of banter and witty ripostes. A few old faces there which was good. Friday found me feeling hung over and rough, and some of my witty banter seemed less big and clever in retrospect. Went for a lunchtime constitutional with Pat, both of us getting very muddy in the process. He is now my boss, but I won't hold this against him. Nice bloke, which is a blessing. Felt mysteriously shattered after this exertion.
Cried off going to see my Mum's half brother's opening night of his exhibition. Was on my way but felt decidedly poor and claustrophobic on the tube. Despite feeling selfish about this, I headed back to Brighton instead. As the mob of commuters crossed the road outside the station a cabby was manhandling a drunk commuter who had kicked the side of his taxi. Language quite colourful and volume high. But the cabby appeared to be content to drag the rag-like commuter about a bit by the lapels. I surprised myself by not becoming involved.
Home, ate a small supper. I realised that I have been in the habit of cooking substantially for myself in the evening as a way to relax. I am not really that hungry but I end up gorging everything. I seem to be eating about two thirds of what I used to in the evening, without even noticing it. This must be a good thing.
120205
Let me paint with water
Let this memory bleed
into itself again.
Unstretched, the paper warps
Time dries into itself
Let this memory bleed
An irregular room
A memory: two beds,
Notes of woodsmoke in sheets
Two beds, breathing and rain
We are separated
from the wildest morning
Stinging, horizontal
Rainstorm, the window
contracted by time
And storms like this
To a manageable
Square of reality.
Let me paint with water
Let this memory bleed
into itself again
And leave no pigment
Except this paper warped
By time and your passing.
Had a bit of a works bash on Thursday night and flirted my way around the room full of banter and witty ripostes. A few old faces there which was good. Friday found me feeling hung over and rough, and some of my witty banter seemed less big and clever in retrospect. Went for a lunchtime constitutional with Pat, both of us getting very muddy in the process. He is now my boss, but I won't hold this against him. Nice bloke, which is a blessing. Felt mysteriously shattered after this exertion.
Cried off going to see my Mum's half brother's opening night of his exhibition. Was on my way but felt decidedly poor and claustrophobic on the tube. Despite feeling selfish about this, I headed back to Brighton instead. As the mob of commuters crossed the road outside the station a cabby was manhandling a drunk commuter who had kicked the side of his taxi. Language quite colourful and volume high. But the cabby appeared to be content to drag the rag-like commuter about a bit by the lapels. I surprised myself by not becoming involved.
Home, ate a small supper. I realised that I have been in the habit of cooking substantially for myself in the evening as a way to relax. I am not really that hungry but I end up gorging everything. I seem to be eating about two thirds of what I used to in the evening, without even noticing it. This must be a good thing.
120205
Let me paint with water
Let this memory bleed
into itself again.
Unstretched, the paper warps
Time dries into itself
Let this memory bleed
An irregular room
A memory: two beds,
Notes of woodsmoke in sheets
Two beds, breathing and rain
We are separated
from the wildest morning
Stinging, horizontal
Rainstorm, the window
contracted by time
And storms like this
To a manageable
Square of reality.
Let me paint with water
Let this memory bleed
into itself again
And leave no pigment
Except this paper warped
By time and your passing.
Comments