Literary Schmiterary
Since February, when I last went home to Lancashire for the weekend and saw my new baby cousins for the first time, things have been different.
I don't want to come over all sentimental - all that hard work suppressing (poorly) my true, soft-touch-self must not be in vain! - but there has been something transformative about that weekend. Whatever pseudo-profound causes can be suggested, the outcome has been one of renewed purpose and clarity, for which I am very grateful and which is long overdue.
The commitment I made to myself at the start of the year to write more has been upheld to some extent; nothing may yet see the light of publicatory day but that's not the point. As my father is fond of quoting, 'Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready man, writing an exact man.' (usually followed by 'Bacon. (a fat man)' but anyway...) This aphorism neatly summarises the inherent benefit of writing in addition to merely conversing and reading, and the subtle difference of application each form has. When I consider the way in which I have spent my life to date, it is obvious that I have done a great deal of reading and talking but hardly any writing, and I have come to believe that this goes some way towards explaining my general lack of focus. Squeezing the swirling mass of information we absorb daily through the piping bag of the written word forces us to introduce order into the chaos.
So far this has not produced the next War and Peace, nor will it in all likelihood, but I will continue to pick away at this literary scab until I have something worth showing off. If even that never happens I still think it will have been worth it for the mental benefits alone.
In window display news I have tried hawking my wares a bit more than usual, mixed results so far, but to try and aid my quest I have gone for something a bit more elaborate than usual at LGC; for once I am genuinely pleased with the result:
Posca pen, paper and cardboard. All real plants no made up ones, all from the Amazon rainforest, some exaggerated scaling and colour but otherwise legit. Toucan by Becky. Jungle is massive.
To the low bastards that have burgled us for the second time in six months - you can take my stuff but you will never crush my spirit. I am trying to take the philosophical view of this whole business, sometimes I succeed, sometimes the anger is overwhelming. Generally though I feel pity more than hate for somebody who would do this, by contrast anyone who doesn't feel compelled to turn to crime to get through life is extremely lucky as the system has not completely failed them.
Finally, the drumkit arrived and is completely amazing. We haven't put it to work yet for our follow-up musical travesty to Summertime is Great, but I have been practising playing and recording. Turns out playing drums is all well and good but recording is nails; more on this to come.











