The weather outside is maudlin and damp, but inside everything is just fine.
Talk is cheap, and today it has been political and reactionary, the post-mortem of the Mayday Massacre still fills the airwaves, Labour (less of the New, thank you) attempt to portray themselves as underdogs. For fucks sake, they’re the government. This isn’t the F.A. Cup.
Mixing two recollections, I choose to represent it here as one. Flicking through the newspapers while my housemate introduces the work of Chris Cunningham to his father, Richard and I pull ideas from the broad sheets of type, plucking them one by one, releasing them to the air to be thought of and retained. Retention is vital in these days where, supposedly, we forget so much. Perhaps we have more to remember.
Certain motifs have become imprinted in the wax of today’s seal: the alcoholism of indigenous people; Kurt Vonnegut’s Cat’s Cradle; the faceless act of leaving a decade between the release of works (both literary and musical); the lack of plot in the incremental (hence the, until now, apathetic response to reports of climate change)…
But it is within email that today will truly be remembered – the possibility of a house in Berlin and my old Palestinian friend getting in touch after two years were moments in a day both drunkish and sluggen.
And of course there was the trying-to-make-up-with-my-sister. The last let go.