On a train, shuttling back into the black. It’s late August and I’m drunk. A handful of beers with friend Dave and heading home. The clouds still hang a rime of blue but the summer’s over. Autumn is here. Autumn is the spider time.
Talking with Dave made me feel like a writer again. I often don’t, these days, but we’ve spent our cups in novels and film theory and learning needs and what it is to swim. The pub is beside a river. Fish jumping from below the surface, bats skimming above. All the gnats in a Venn diagram of doom.
I’ve been reading again. The Good Man Jesus And The Scoundrel Christ — The Penolopiad — All The Pretty Horses — The Man Of The Forest. All of it filling the well. I’m writing a little, too, if seldom. The Potter’s Field is about to step into the world. I hope it will find a path.
The sky has drained to dark while I’ve been writing this. Write drunk, edit sober, right?
One out of two ain’t bad.