Post 1.001 – Conversational Fragments

Auden is darkly, depressibly comic, eloquent, concerned both about the wider world and the horrible authorities in it, and with the very, very personal and embarassing. He’s like an Elliot without the unnecessary stretching for benchmarking references… It’s a sad poem, of a man past his prime or never in it, lusting in the carefully-instituional structures of yesteryear… I found myself walking through Kings Cross yesterday and, catching sight of a flapping wing feeling sudden joy at some life other than the massed shoulder-pressed humans, before I realised it was a stuck shred of paper flapping in the tube-train’s gale… …Even the parks are homogeneous – pigeons and ducks, reptilian wonders… I just want the wooded edge of a cornfield and a me-shaped hole to swelter in… It sounds perfect, glorious, but I couldn’t move there because of the terror…. It feels like there’s inevitable erosion of enclaves coming, always; even Byzantium fell.



There are few harder things in life than introducing yourself, especially in print where mellifluous nuance can turn to indulgent wankery. So. I am definitely a 'writer'. You could also call me an 'artist'. I could probably put the words 'designer' and 'consultant' here too, but they feel crass.

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