There is not much to be said for the way things have gone lately, other than to enjoy that sweet air borne dust on the lips; pollens and poisons?
The most hopeful days of the year, the last thirty of the upward curve. When we go for the walk, striding to out run the falling sun, we are positive we will live long enough to see in the evening.
So? Well normally we tidy away those thoughts using the days cacophony to drown out certainty.
But Tuesday night is different. We know we are going to survive the night. Nobody dies on Tuesday, nobody escapes.
The most important part of writing is of course avoiding writing. This is the glue.
So tonight I have been reading some things I wrote six or seven years ago. Mostly blog posts long since withered. But I got a kick out of them. They gave me a heat in my gut, terrifying me with the only idea that should ever terrify anyone, running out of time.
Reading my old stuff is like sitting by a window in Vienna overlooking a courtyard as people you no longer really understand board a horse drawn carriage. I spent the night sipping melancholy and remembering those times when I caught the wave just right.
Who was this strange person who wrote those lines? Some of which are so alien now but at one time they must have been mine. I spin my brain around a couple of times, spinning and carousels remains a constant theme of all my books. So I spun my brain around in an attempt to locate the configuration which blurted out those bits and pieces that were once me, are still me and will never be me.
Yeah whimsy and some barely credible German word are the little lilts and tips I dig from the evening.
So thanks and talk soon
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