Late in the day even for a Sunday, I arrive at the computer with nothing demanding to write of. A morning spent cleaning up after the night before, eight people round the table, eight bottles of wine, and eighty cigarettes.
An hour spent playing guitar too. Achieving synchrony of sound, a balance between the overdrive, treble and bass of the amplifier, and the pick-up settings, tone and volume of the guitar happens rarely, but today I picked up the guitar and everything was present. In these instances, you can strike any strings with disorder and the tones and distortion overlay into a perfect hum. The instantaneous release, the ease of catharsis provides an obvious counterpoint to writing. What consolation it would be to locate a similar accord in words! There must be those that do, those that are automatons of ink and pulp – what do they have to work at?
Unbelievably, the snow continues to drive down, penning cars in with white rectangles and over on the moor the sky is beginning to join the hilltops. What childish enthrallment is stirred in me by the simple sight of falling snow! Literature that uses snow as motif (stand up Pamuk), never fails to find a friend in me. Richard, Ben and I sat eating a late breakfast and doubting its staying power, but now the back yard is entirely covered and the unprepared road is starting to grey over.