I’m writing this from a house that is feeling very sorry for itself.
The horror as my depression lifted at the beginning of the UK lockdown. It wasn’t depression stopping me. It was something far worse. Me.
Today I went up into town from Streatham to meet some folks in Covent Garden for breakfast/brunch.
In preparation for the rootlessness of England post Union. St Edmund should be retrieved from deep cultural memory.
I touched on productivity anxiety during my podcast this week. It’s something that’s been bothering me a lot this year, especially in the weeks before we went on holiday last month.
The work of body one leaves behind after action, is not left behind in the past. It is a nest of materials that one unfolds into the future from within.
Sun comes up, sun goes down, the year turns, the date changes and the clock keeps ticking. I can’t belive that its the 7th of November.
The other night I had a dream. I opened a letter and read it out loud on camera for this weeks show. What a nightmare.