Friday

  • gaggle teenage boys peacocking private school livery sitting behind me. Cricket season has started.
  • turning toward a window does not make your mobile phone conversation intimate. Not seeing us does not mean we cannot hear you.
  • they stood, crowded under the awning in school grey. It wasn’t their breath but cigarette smoke that was back lit by the morning sun, blue in the crisp light.

Thursday

  • sitting in my study, at home with its splendid Eltham modernist squatness, the concatenation of rain and metal is suprisingly affective.
  • it is a day of tea and interrupted unwelcomeness.
  • brittle, resilient, brittle, resilient. Metronomic really.

Tuesday

  • a new Bob Graham book about a sparrow, waiting for the new William Gibson, a good dim sim.
  • the last lecture faded into an intellectual whispered whimper, relying on saying something with incessant insistence. Not idea based argument or even peripatetic enquiry.
  • too often I believe my own bullshit

video blogging, et al.