Sunday and still have writer's gyp. Tiredness, aching and wussiness. Have just returned from an evening constitutional by the sea. Quite cold tonight. This short walk made me feel tired again, however, and I am going to skip work tomorrow to get better. I am no longer in the business of putting business before my health.
Mary Jane and me, after emailing one another for about four years, actually spoke together on the phone for the first time. I called her up, quite nervous, on Saturday afternoon. She was nervous too. Funny how you can have a penfriendship for so long, but actually talking to each other suddenly made it more real and new. We seemed to have a good deal to talk about on the phone as well as in cyberspace, however, which bodes well for her visit to Blighty in April. She has an exotic voice and is a lovely and interesting woman and I have a crush on her.
Slept in till gone 10 this morning, which is the latest for months. This despite the fact my mobile went off at about 5:00am with masculine sounding heavy breathing on it, which was a) disturbing, and b) inappropriate.
Listened to ambient music. Bought another exquisite CD by Brian Eno (with Harold Budd) called Plateaux of Mirrors. It is very beautiful, and I spent time writing today's random poem this morning while listening to it.
Then Anton Anna and Clouds dropped by for a cup of tea. Clouds, dandling on Anna's knee, decided my key fob needed a good licking and attended to the matter. Returning later from the store I bumped into Janet in my twitten who was hurrying off somewhere.
This afternoon I ironed clothes and generally felt sluggish. Shouting in a solitary fashion at the television this afternoon as a woeful England let an at least as woeful France beat them at rugby.
And then MJ called me, which was great. Talked again for a long time and this made me feel exceedingly cheery, and forget that I was supposed to be feeling ill. A bit concerned as she wants a photo of me and there is no such thing as a good photo of me. And I don't want to send her one with a child-scaring face.
130205/foxhole
Soundtrack; your name in the gamelan
Of rain-struck leaves;
The whistle and pop of bullets
Baby, baby, baby
Hold your M16 and drift
Into the jukebox of dreams.
Left-handed, you snatch
At mosquitoes
By the oil-rainbowed river.
In nine slinking months
The birth of ghost patrols
In the forest and the plain.
Yesterday's dust off, the dead
Stowed inside dragonflies
Returned to your prehistory.
Dawn, exhaustion like a trip,
You watch an angel wade towards you
With something in her hand.
Mary Jane and me, after emailing one another for about four years, actually spoke together on the phone for the first time. I called her up, quite nervous, on Saturday afternoon. She was nervous too. Funny how you can have a penfriendship for so long, but actually talking to each other suddenly made it more real and new. We seemed to have a good deal to talk about on the phone as well as in cyberspace, however, which bodes well for her visit to Blighty in April. She has an exotic voice and is a lovely and interesting woman and I have a crush on her.
Slept in till gone 10 this morning, which is the latest for months. This despite the fact my mobile went off at about 5:00am with masculine sounding heavy breathing on it, which was a) disturbing, and b) inappropriate.
Listened to ambient music. Bought another exquisite CD by Brian Eno (with Harold Budd) called Plateaux of Mirrors. It is very beautiful, and I spent time writing today's random poem this morning while listening to it.
Then Anton Anna and Clouds dropped by for a cup of tea. Clouds, dandling on Anna's knee, decided my key fob needed a good licking and attended to the matter. Returning later from the store I bumped into Janet in my twitten who was hurrying off somewhere.
This afternoon I ironed clothes and generally felt sluggish. Shouting in a solitary fashion at the television this afternoon as a woeful England let an at least as woeful France beat them at rugby.
And then MJ called me, which was great. Talked again for a long time and this made me feel exceedingly cheery, and forget that I was supposed to be feeling ill. A bit concerned as she wants a photo of me and there is no such thing as a good photo of me. And I don't want to send her one with a child-scaring face.
130205/foxhole
Soundtrack; your name in the gamelan
Of rain-struck leaves;
The whistle and pop of bullets
Baby, baby, baby
Hold your M16 and drift
Into the jukebox of dreams.
Left-handed, you snatch
At mosquitoes
By the oil-rainbowed river.
In nine slinking months
The birth of ghost patrols
In the forest and the plain.
Yesterday's dust off, the dead
Stowed inside dragonflies
Returned to your prehistory.
Dawn, exhaustion like a trip,
You watch an angel wade towards you
With something in her hand.
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