Halfway through all the blabbing of travels the wind kind of went out of me, perhaps, and I presume so, drawn out by the routine drifts of a rapidly returning ascent to normalcy here in London.
As I've seen before, the dreaded 9-5, (or 5-10, as it may be in my case), leaves little urges to record splendor, or see the interesting amidst the interring, but of course that is a theme for the greater coursing masses anyways, and I'll take my rain cheque on the philosophy.
It's late January now, the wicked wanders of the season have moved a bit within memories, from invigorating to nostalgic, a bit like turning possibility into fantasy, from aqua into unda. Meanwhile my work has dried up a bit as we enter the slower season, leaving what could be ample opportunities for free-space, that I must admit have turned to forgotten days under my watch. I'm in classes for Arabic, violin, and a choir (ha!), but it always sounds a mite more engaging in a list, and less so in the reality of eastern scribbling and D flats. (Oh, there are many, many of those.)
Plans are being made heartily with Monsieur Ian French (of the recently engaged), to travel this summer, east and east again, so the future is very open. Financially daunting, but open. Kind of like a Planet Organic, exotic and forbidden.
Off to the Tate Modern again this afternoon. Meh, it's free.
As the documents of the days come before me I shall post them on the cork, I promise.
Nick.
P.s. This is a photo of my theatre:
The cardboard box I sleep in is behind Row W.
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