As the day opens up, plans begin to unfurl. What strangeness it is to see a day mapped out and, even further than this, a week! There are those whose lives are mapped out, they are bound by circumstance and they immediately turn these sentences into irrelevant idiocy. But I can only write of what I can write of, and better this than nothing. Over the coloured bins - black, yellow, blue, green – flighty, nervous birds trade small gifts, arguing over scraps of waste. Winter is coming, the temperature in this outbuilding is dropping nightly.
Yesterday was an awkward one, not fitting into any calendar that I can produce. Certain successes of occupation and finding future work were tempered by discussion of horizons. What can one say of horizons? They are endlessly receding, what changes they experience are calculable and unaffected. But talk was of horizons and with horizons in mind we slept, badly.
Today there are plans, plans to seek out a commemoration, to research Germany’s reunification and see it in the light of just under two decades. Reading elsewhere yesterday morning, there was talk of history, of Old Europe and of my particular obsession – the isolated island. What circumstances produce a mindset, how can the politics of youth directly affect instance of semantics within the individual? Meaning predicted by layered, social erudition. Europe, bound by history, is making history too. The single most important lesson I have learned here is how much of an enclave of the United States the UK is. I always thought there was more of the Scandinavian about our mindset, but they are far closer (especially in this part of Germany) to Europe. How can this be judged though? Linguistics, authorship, political self-organisation, recreation? What do I know of such things.
Correspondence, extended correspondence has removed me of my words, but those letters are more important that the words here. Later, I will cycle down to the west of the city (unified how exactly?), go and watch some documentary films and try and eavesdrop on some authors talking about their work. Cara and I will find some cheap food, no doubt, and some strong coffee – yet more of the black stuff – and take seats and watch the world go by. After this we will ride home slowly, up the hill and past the churches, crossing tramlines and watching the trees fill with birds.
When home, I would like to spread my books around on the huge desk and take notes from three or four at once, try and fuse several parallel thoughts. Whenever I do succeed with this, I always turn to my own writing, which is no bad thing. I reach for one of Cara’s pens, for she does not lose them like I do, and write in quick, illegible sentences. I perhaps write for an hour and then feel as though I can do no more and go downstairs to the freezing kitchen for more coffee. We have visitors planned for tonight however, a cultural invasion from the East, from Poland, so writing will be postponed and coffee will be postponed and instead we will reach for the alcohol that has sat on the shelf for a little too long.