I have found blogging hard these last few months. I have been busy. Or perhaps I am just not a blogger, not committed? I have been teaching at Totleigh Barton and The Hurst for Arvon with that nice poet Cliff Yates and that young David Flufeder. I have been working on edits of the memoir, due to be published next summer. I have visited Brighton to bounce on castles with my best chum Amanda and her two year old nutter, Willa. I have bought myself a straw trilby for the summer. I have sold another book, wow. I have been running with Andre, (this morning). And I have been shooting the breeze with Curly, a lot. I like living in her house.
An artist’s house is clean and full of art. A writers house is grubby and full of books.
For the last four months, since April, I have been living in an artist’s house. It is very beautiful and full of good art. The garden is just as the interior, exotic and colourful and full of surprises. Firework aliums and echinaccea, and clambering roses and clematis. I have been teaching out there too. Lovely, of an evening. My students bring humuus and melon and all kinds of goodies to eat.
It’s good for the mental health to live somewhere so aethetically pleasing to the eye. Though Curly and I have taken to smoking tobacco rollies and drinking the odd beer in the garden. Last night we were at The Island, drinking G and Ts. Summer is a wonderful state of being. Kensal Green is very local. People say hello in the street, everyone knows each other. Caremlo has gone on holiday to Italy for two weeks. Tonight I will blog, for the first time in weeks. then I will read a nice book one of my students sent to me in the post, The Ballad of the Sad Cafe, by Carson McCullers, that Amercian prodigy. I like her work very much.
I must Skpye my mother any day now. I know she will read this. Hello Mum. I’m fine.