Upbeat
Feeling very upbeat today. Particularly about Skelton Yawngrave after reviewing the opening few chapters through Sol Stein eyes. The end is in sight, and I am proud of the quality of what I have written.
Got a good old fashioned snail mail letter from Richard in Guernsey, with a wonderful poem called Deaf about his late father. I can't remember the last time I got a flesh and blood letter from a friend. He also mentioned that I have another poem on the buses in Guernsey, which is pleasing. This one really is an antique, called Dusk at Icart Point and it goes back to when I was 23; more than half a lifetime ago. As before when I saw the last poem they used, it was as if it were written by someone else. But lovely that they have this odd little afterlife.
After working this morning (Lorraine preparing us a hearty brunch) I felt a little braindead. But we went out walking about in the afternoon just catching bits and pieces going on in the Brighton streets, such as a contortionist, various musicians, and generally bumping into folks which is happening more and more these days. After four years I am at home here. Then we walked down to the busy seaside and had a coffee looking at the sea.
Today I had an Amazon delivery, which included Bill Bruford The Autobiography which I began to read avidly. This is the single most interesting book by a musician I have read since A Year with Swollen Appendices by Brian Eno. For the uninitiated Bruford is a drummer, but this is a little like saying that Picasso painted a bit. The book so far is full of insights into the nature of drumming, music and the music business, and absorbingly written anecdotes. Whenever I have seen him in interviews, he has always come across as particularly coherent. What I wasn't expecting was this great book.
Feeling very upbeat today. Particularly about Skelton Yawngrave after reviewing the opening few chapters through Sol Stein eyes. The end is in sight, and I am proud of the quality of what I have written.
Got a good old fashioned snail mail letter from Richard in Guernsey, with a wonderful poem called Deaf about his late father. I can't remember the last time I got a flesh and blood letter from a friend. He also mentioned that I have another poem on the buses in Guernsey, which is pleasing. This one really is an antique, called Dusk at Icart Point and it goes back to when I was 23; more than half a lifetime ago. As before when I saw the last poem they used, it was as if it were written by someone else. But lovely that they have this odd little afterlife.
After working this morning (Lorraine preparing us a hearty brunch) I felt a little braindead. But we went out walking about in the afternoon just catching bits and pieces going on in the Brighton streets, such as a contortionist, various musicians, and generally bumping into folks which is happening more and more these days. After four years I am at home here. Then we walked down to the busy seaside and had a coffee looking at the sea.
Today I had an Amazon delivery, which included Bill Bruford The Autobiography which I began to read avidly. This is the single most interesting book by a musician I have read since A Year with Swollen Appendices by Brian Eno. For the uninitiated Bruford is a drummer, but this is a little like saying that Picasso painted a bit. The book so far is full of insights into the nature of drumming, music and the music business, and absorbingly written anecdotes. Whenever I have seen him in interviews, he has always come across as particularly coherent. What I wasn't expecting was this great book.
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