I have just finished reading "My Heart Laid Bare" Baudelaire's writings during his, seemingly miserable stay in Brussels. He reveals himself somewhat as a nineteenth century Jeremy Clarkson perhaps with a dash of Sean Connery thrown in. Quite often he admonishes himself for lack of work. It is in the throes of this sentiment that I feel more kinship with the man (rather than the women thrashing and Belgian hating). I really must apply myself more diligently. More than four films lie half done on camera or computer. Hundreds of little gold dying spacemen are yet to appear, and in truth may never appear. I am also as yet (still?) undecided what to show in Southend and I am barely beginning to think about my forthcoming residency in August. I fear I will not attain the crypt before sunset! Or is it sunrise?
(image of marauding undead on a kitchen table taken during a meeting between my companion and her phd supervisor)