And all the ashes turned to stars
I was writing the previous entry when the intercom rang. I went to answer - expecting a parcel and dreading the hoohah I'd had getting post back a few weeks ago - but it turned out to be some guy wondering if there were any Spanish-speaking people in the block. It was a short conversation.
Some bad dreams of late, involving death: breathing in poison I'd laid down for the huge slugs infesting my room; being strangled on a shingle beach in the middle of the city. My subconscious can go to Hell.
A couple of days ago I was smoking on Corporation Street and I noticed a small crowd gathering. A bunch of (white) policemen clustered around a black Muslim guy and his young family. My hackles rise whenever I see coppers around POC. What little gist I could get was that his little boy had been either jostled or insulted by a passer-by and the dad had taken umbrage. He lifted up his mobile to film the officers while talking to the crowd, most of whom were white and amused-looking. Those smiles nauseated me. It doesn't seem a huge step from smirking rubberneckers to open abuse.
In more pleasant news, "This Spectacular Darkness" has sold well: half the print run gone in it first three days of release. It'll go to an e-book edition now. I'm currently re-reading James Agate's diaries and I picked up Scott and Willis' "Botanicum" for a snip a couple of days back. It's gorgeously illustrated, in the manner of an expensive Victorian natural history tome: I couldn't turn down any book that depicts Carboniferous-era plants under a bell jar.
The city skyline was beautiful in yesterday's twilight, as seen from a sloping road in the Black Country: watercolour washes of dove and slate, rooves and trees deepening to blue, the BT Tower lights like beacon fires. I think I've found the church of the nightbell I've mentioned in older entries: it's ten minutes' walk down the towpath, a narrow steeple with green shutters. Perhaps too narrow for the way that bell sounds, but it's at the right distance. I need to get down there at the right time to make sure...
Some bad dreams of late, involving death: breathing in poison I'd laid down for the huge slugs infesting my room; being strangled on a shingle beach in the middle of the city. My subconscious can go to Hell.
A couple of days ago I was smoking on Corporation Street and I noticed a small crowd gathering. A bunch of (white) policemen clustered around a black Muslim guy and his young family. My hackles rise whenever I see coppers around POC. What little gist I could get was that his little boy had been either jostled or insulted by a passer-by and the dad had taken umbrage. He lifted up his mobile to film the officers while talking to the crowd, most of whom were white and amused-looking. Those smiles nauseated me. It doesn't seem a huge step from smirking rubberneckers to open abuse.
In more pleasant news, "This Spectacular Darkness" has sold well: half the print run gone in it first three days of release. It'll go to an e-book edition now. I'm currently re-reading James Agate's diaries and I picked up Scott and Willis' "Botanicum" for a snip a couple of days back. It's gorgeously illustrated, in the manner of an expensive Victorian natural history tome: I couldn't turn down any book that depicts Carboniferous-era plants under a bell jar.
The city skyline was beautiful in yesterday's twilight, as seen from a sloping road in the Black Country: watercolour washes of dove and slate, rooves and trees deepening to blue, the BT Tower lights like beacon fires. I think I've found the church of the nightbell I've mentioned in older entries: it's ten minutes' walk down the towpath, a narrow steeple with green shutters. Perhaps too narrow for the way that bell sounds, but it's at the right distance. I need to get down there at the right time to make sure...