Kimchi And Grooving Off My Own Portable

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.”

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