If it isn't one thing, it's another. In my case, that means that it is either too much culture to consume (yes, I'll get to the problems of that verb in a moment) or the illnesses preventing me from keeping them down. The past three weeks have seen me spend as much time trying to heal as trying to work - and the two competing alienations are hidden by the unwelcome spectacle of a grubby critic limping across broken cities.
On the positive side, the lack of work done means a surplus of concepts considered. Various shooting pains and an abscess have coloured the concepts with a shade of bitter red: there are a few incomplete blog articles that are distinctive for their venom. Perhaps I am using this illness to slip out a few ill-tempered opinions, excuse at the ready.
There are also far too many pieces that are preoccupied with my own pain. I like to think of them as being part of my general willingness to expose the critic's interior world. I have seen enough burlesque to have fallen in love with the reveal.
The photograph at the top of the page is the closest thing that I have had to a holiday this year. It was taken somewhere near Edinburgh Waverley Station, and looks down onto Arthur's Seat. The lush foliage reminds me of foreign climes -- something in the fecundity of the plants and the reflection of sunlight recalls Greece in the late 1980s. The apparent appearance of a large mothership in the top of the photograph is, of course, the photographer's own.
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