What happened to you?
My, it's been a while. The past fortnight has been forthcoming with it's promises, but despite this I can't shake the nuanced idiom that perhaps all is not as it seems. This is my place. I am a devotee of brisk mornings and an atmosphere that you can see dispersing. I am fond of winter; it makes me pine for Devon's languid mise en scene, largely unfawned British Racing Green canvassing the horizon. And when I close my eyes, what comes to me in some musky lucid haze is this: another bar tab at the expense of Dogface, rising earlier than I would do for cities, the smell of napalm in the morning, mid-afternoon sojourns via a Dedicated Poultry Shed (DPS). These things will come, for I am waiting. In the latter part of this year, I have put my head down and not noticed through which exit all time left.
Ok, so this past fortnight has been relatively forthcoming with it's fulfillment of promise (for what is the use of an empty oath?) . After weeks of neglect, I did become with slight trepidation, the darling of PR companies. For one night, I was the glittered princess. And a silver envelope awaited my ingress at Shepherd's Bush. And I was treated like a fresh kitten to the rapture and life affirming rock of TV on the Radio, a gig sold out weeks earlier and with tickets tempting me on Ebay at just under £70 a pop. And boy, did they ever. And how! I met the beautiful and wealthy daughter of the former owner of the venue (how many referentials there?), who was genuinely enjoying herself.
I have since embraced the narci-nihilism of hermititude, a predicament bestowed unfavourably upon me through the dual hardships of relative poverty and some kind of postmodern malaise, a lack of joie de vivre I can only surmise as being crippling through it's subtlety. Wake and rise, and all lovelorn relationships, stark shrouds of feeling, moments of fleeting understanding at it all- give way to stubborn wake and rise. Here's me, lacking momentarily in inspiration. Nothing but unforgiving nostalgia for cold, cold Devon mornings, snow, and chicken farms. That spark will come. I found myself at 4 am last night feverishly scribbling notes to a motif not yet composed. It's a start, toward something greater than one's self.
Ok, so this past fortnight has been relatively forthcoming with it's fulfillment of promise (for what is the use of an empty oath?) . After weeks of neglect, I did become with slight trepidation, the darling of PR companies. For one night, I was the glittered princess. And a silver envelope awaited my ingress at Shepherd's Bush. And I was treated like a fresh kitten to the rapture and life affirming rock of TV on the Radio, a gig sold out weeks earlier and with tickets tempting me on Ebay at just under £70 a pop. And boy, did they ever. And how! I met the beautiful and wealthy daughter of the former owner of the venue (how many referentials there?), who was genuinely enjoying herself.
I have since embraced the narci-nihilism of hermititude, a predicament bestowed unfavourably upon me through the dual hardships of relative poverty and some kind of postmodern malaise, a lack of joie de vivre I can only surmise as being crippling through it's subtlety. Wake and rise, and all lovelorn relationships, stark shrouds of feeling, moments of fleeting understanding at it all- give way to stubborn wake and rise. Here's me, lacking momentarily in inspiration. Nothing but unforgiving nostalgia for cold, cold Devon mornings, snow, and chicken farms. That spark will come. I found myself at 4 am last night feverishly scribbling notes to a motif not yet composed. It's a start, toward something greater than one's self.