The sun has risen in Maine.
Have you ever noticed that those who make the most noise are the conformists grumbling downstairs?
Deep down in a vegetable part of myself, I feel like fermented cabbage. I suppose it helps to have taken a sudden liking to kimchi.
Sometimes the world delivers: the UPS truck drives up and hands you an unexpected parcel. Other times, nothing. But I’m not the kind of person to go down on his knees and pray. I tend to get on my bike and shout: “I’m not impressed at all!”
God, the sky is that rich blue with drifting clouds and the sun is hanging there in fiery suspension of belief.
Last night I put on headphones and listened to Roxy Music’s Avalon followed by New Order’s Lost Sirens. I slept well, only once turning over to glimpse Morrissey pouting in the corner because I hadn’t listened to him.
I am a man who loves to fill a basin with literary quotes and bathe my perambulating feet. Here’s one by Virginia Woolf that gets right between the toes:
“So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say. But to sacrifice a hair of the head of your vision, a shade of its colour, in deference to some Headmaster with a silver pot in his hand or to some professor with a measuring-rod up his sleeve, is the most abject treachery.”