I rent an attic in the upper east corner of England and, if I squint, the north sea rattles the window. I hum a vague melody. I pocket paper scraps and treasure found in the street. I count every magpie that I see; last tally, 10. Which is not to be missed.
When the dog bites, when the bee stings…
notebooks and scissoring ‘zines.
Collage, ginger, broccoli (steamed).
Smiling, to-do lists, sleeping.
Nabokov, camping, Lou Reed.
Spider plants, cats and dogs, the rain.
‘Horses’ is still the greatest rnr debut.
Dylan, charity shops, MF DOOM.
Anecdote, story, dream.
Blueberries, salted caramel ice cream. Cheese.
Bellerby, Eno, lighthouses, tea.
Low tide, frown lines, Tom Drury.
Berlin. The moon. Penn Beacon.
Sauvignon Blanc is fine.
Honesty, art and honey.
Whitman, Seinfeld, The Fall.
Rama-lama-ding-dong, beach combing, baths.
Breathing. Scrambled egg. Strong women, nervous men:
People; la dee da dee da.
Peter Cook, Vic & Bob, Morning of The Magicians
– flowers & friends. Post in the mail.
The truth in the margins.
This way please > Dead Fox In Mid Seventies.