I just made the most amazing loaves. They are crispy on their metal-fold edges, and soft and slightly salty. I am distinctly not hungry, but I could probably eat a half loaf in minutes. Salty butter. What the hell am I, freshly baked bread and Black Sabbath box set, what the hell? I like these splits.
I was thinking a lot lately about how oblique the blog has become, like I am creating an own privacy by being almost non-referential. It's quite an interesting tact really, but I do want to actually start writing about things, rather than hinting at maybes. I finished work early at 1.15pm yesterday, and I was sharing my plans of swims and art, that sounds productive he said, I challenged there wasn't any product, so was it strictly true? When I chatted shit for 3 1/2 hours at the party and barely remember any of it, was anything produced, where there any results?
I am back after a sleep. There is an item about diaries on Woman's Hour, right now there's arguing. I am having a tear between the personal and the private, reporting and reflecting, are they mutually exclusive, are they the same... Either way, I want to start writing and reading for the good of Art. I think this shouldn't be on here. The internet is for reporting, journals are for reflecting. A place for both perhaps. When she said last week about writing for art reasons I was proud and sceretly knew I probably couldn't do it. I'd find my Person getting in the way, perhaps, or perhaps my Person would add what set it apart? You won't know until you try.
I have once again been smashing my diary full of fun, really good fun, gigs and dances and dancing and restaurant meals and drinks and art and dinners and parties, mini train trips, bread making, all sorts. I am being productive, with no product. I am feeling good at the time, having a panic the other times. Laura Gibson, Fiery Furnaces, Kings of Convenience, Max Richter, two tea dances, two lindy hops, noodles and Mexican, the after party, the rad party, our halloween party, St Alban's abbey cafe, two lots of bread, three dinners and one secret restaurant, the men's suits and Matthew 'heart' Brannon. Lots of fun stuff. Still particularly chronic.
We were watching Groundhog Day last night. I couldn't sit still, I was in between and the itchy repetetiveness gets me. But as the film progresses, he finds solace in the chronic release, making a difference in each relived day. It made me want to wallow in it a little bit, and just make a good day everyday. The product will perhaps occur naturally.