Saturday

  • reading Knausgaard (I have no idea how to pronounce that, I’ll have to remember to ask Christoffer) in the cafe surprising and detailed recent memories assert themselves.
  • the crema leaves a patina of brown milky lace across the inside surface of the glass.
  • white, blonde yellow bench under a black framed window. Three lengths wide with a facia to make it look as if it is thick dense heavy serious. Reaching underneath I realise they’re maybe 15mm thick with their bottoms undressed. The middle plank is a topographic swirl of contour lines riffing in honey brown.

Wednesday

  • carapace, an exoskeleton, of middle age funk that weaves fanciful indolent webs.
  • the dog has cancer
  • he fumed, argued, proved, defended and defeated. Such logical erudite sensuous fidelity, as he walked up the hill to collect the child from school

video blogging, et al.