Return from the north

From Stoke by train the speedy pan of slate grey and rich blue green reminds me of an El Greco painting of an approaching storm. I am writing the thoughts of an inebriate fearing what realisation the cold morning light will bring. Mr Bethell and friends rounded my presentation with a visit to another local hostelry (actually the same hostelry as we visited on Thursday). The drinks taken there have only served to revivify those imbibed at yesterday's impromtu beer festival and Thursday's consolatory meal. Still, the train travels swiftly and smoothly south. Earlier at Airspace I showed part of "Call" to the assembly hoping to allay my fears. It seemed to go down reasonably well though it did seem markedly different to the other works. Mr Bown's dauntless struggle to engage the ladies of the bingo club came to the fore. To me he again appeared more like a flawed hero than my original conception as vampiric villain. This pleased me and reminded me of something Christopher Lee said about the character of Dracula something to do with his vulnerability and pathos. The exact words have slipped away.

My loss of memory described above is not wholly due to my intoxicated state. Nor an attempt at a sort of romantic narrative fade. But rather the result of constant interruption. My dear companion is sending such frequent messages that she is causing my phone to crash repeatedly and my temple to throb with an embollistic intensity. Even now I am typing through clenched teeth. I believe she was a Bengal cat in another life, but I do love her dearly.






-- posted abroad