three degrees centigrade. clear.

Tales of a Black Heart.

1: Anna

Anna.

Anna, Anna, Anna.

The silver-blue hair hanging wistfully over gamine ears. Eyes, pleading panda eyes; thickly circled in turquoise like a cartoon boxer. Flickering, at intervals, a lighthouse-steady helplessness. Her smallness wrapped in a black raincoat that falls short of her knees. Poking out from underneath, some kind of legging; the lacy, stretchy, synthetic type. Poking out from the sleeves are black lacy wrists, as she sips her coffee. The girlish coffee grip: elbows on the table, a small, pale hand either side of the cup and held about three inches from the mouth. Gentle blowing of her thin plum lips and the anxious tapping of her cheap flat shoe against the table leg. A bird with a broken wing, beating against a shoe box.

There is, of course, a bloke. There is always a bloke. The agent? The photographer? Gopher? Shortly he arrives, in a yellow anorak. He is well spoken. Thin-rimmed metal spectacles and ill-fitting navy twill trousers. What is that he's carrying? One of those faux leather portfolios. And a ballpoint pen. It clicks ostentatiously in his plump hand. Click-click! Click-click!

"So... let's start by quickly going over what you've done so far, what your experience is... then we'll talk about what we might do in the future...."

"Okay."

"Girl-girl?"

"No problem."

"Girl-boy?"

"No problem."

"Girl-girl-boy?"

Hesitation. Bitten lip.

"Okay."

"But mainly photographs, so far?"

"Mainly photographs."

"Any videos?"

"Some videos. I... did. Last week I did... but...."

"You weren't comfortable?"

"I wasn't... rewarded."

"So it was a money thing?"

"Yeah. A money thing."

So... let's talk about money..."

Their voices dropped, lower: inaudible. I went back to reading my book. I didn't want to hear much more anyway.

two degrees centigrade. clear.

Sunday update

Breakfast: Bagels with scrambled egg and grilled pancetta. Orange juice, tea.
Dinner: Roast turkey, potatoes, parsnips, carrots, stuffing, poached pear brioche, cheese... the works.
Supper: Porridge.
Music: Maria Callas.
Narrative: This hiatus has gone on long enough, wouldn't you agree? One of the rules* we have here at Medway Exiles Club is 'Never explain, never apologise'. And yet I feel the urge to provide an explanation; where I've been, what I've done, why I haven't posted. I feel the urge, but I shan't indulge it. Suffice to say, I've been busy, and not in the best of health. Still, no posts for the best part of two entire calendar months is pretty unforgiveable by any standards. I shall endeavour to do better,..

It's not that I haven't been writing. The words keep coming - unbidden, almost - and I write them down as they come. But there is a certain process to be followed. There is a polishing, a refining, that they undergo before they are revealed for your pleasure and delectation. It takes time and energy and in these resources I am all too frequently lacking, sadly.

In the meantime, while I go away and do some of that there polishing, let me point you in the direction of Merlin Mann's blog 43 Folders. It's about, as Merlin says, "finding the time and attention to do your best creative work". There's plenty there to keep you occupied until I finish the next piece.

Catch y'all soon. Have good Mondays.

* No. 23

ten degrees centigrade. rain.

From Inside the Whale, George Orwell, 1940.

During the boom years, when dollars were plentiful and the exchange-value...low...[there was] such a swarm of artists, writers, students, dilettanti, sight-seers, debauchees, and plain idlers as the world has probably never seen. In some quarters of the town the so-called artists must actually have outnumbered the working population - indeed, it has been reckoned that...there were as many as 30,000...most of them impostors. The populace had grown so hardened to artists that gruff-voiced lesbians in corduroy breeches and young men in Grecian or medieval costume could walk the streets without attracting a glance, and along the... banks... it was almost impossible to pick one's way through the sketching stools. It was the age of dark horses and neglected genii....

As it turned out ... the slump descended like another Ice Age, the cosmopolitan mob of artists vanished, and the huge... cafes which only ten years ago were filled till the small hours by hordes of shrieking poseurs have turned into darkened tombs in which there are not even any ghosts.

Bring it on.

Full text here, although it's actually about Paris, and Tropic of Cancer, by Henry Miller, and the above is just a small excerpt I found interesting and apposite enough to share.

fourteen degrees centigrade. cloudy.

A few pictures from Andalucia here. The rest will go on Flickr, when I can be arsed sorting through them. My shitty laptop hates big pictures, I hate Flickr; it's a bad combination.

Hope y'all are well.

thirteen degrees centigrade. clear.

This... thing... terrifies me. Honestly, truly, scares me shitless. Always has done. Even writing this much has required a great deal of effort. I can feel the nausea building as I type.

I... I can't explain it. It's just the most horrifying thing.