It’s raining so much in Maine, I know the croaking chorus from The Frogs of Aristophanes. The sky is like the underbelly of a dead whale. Even the leaves look jaded.
On a day like today, if I was still at my job for the magazine of Maine, I’d have had to look at glossy pictures of the state in its nuptial bliss and tell the slightly deaf older reader on the phone that lighthouses never get wet and that, yes, Maine is paradise all nicely sealed up in a souvenir bottle.
I recently read that when you meet someone form France for the first time, they never ask you what you do for a living. That’s refreshing. Here, it’s always exactly the following:
“So, what do you do for work?”
“Well, I’m between the daily bread just now.”
“You don’t work then.”
“Yes, I do. I’m writing a book.”
“Oh, you’ll have to excuse me, my husband just fired someone and he feels queasy.”
In my morning tea leaves, I noticed Alan Moore’s face and he spoke to me: “I’ve developed a theory that there’s an inverse relationship between money and imagination. That if you’ve got lots of imagination then you don’t really need much money, and if you’ve got lots of money then you won’t bother with much imagination. You’ve got to be able to pay your bills, otherwise you’re not going to sleep at night. But beyond that, the world inside my head has always been a far richer place than the world outside it. I suppose that a lot of my art and writing are meant to bring the two together.”
I’m packing off now to a dank cellar to dream of the muddy fields of the Glastonbury Festival.
Here’s some Peter Murphy.