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ashlymeI took a walk around Edgbaston Reservoir this morning. I needed to work a nasty twenty-four hour depression out of my system. I hoped to do a bit of swan-watching (I've seen them there at night, vague and pale as ghost-ships). Instead, a gullbabble, lots of coots with their neat pied heads, lots of canoeists. The water was steel-blue. I was halfway around the reservoir when the heavens opened. I huddled under the trees for a bit watching the waterworks tower loom in and out of the rain then decided to push on. The pagoda of the local Buddhist temple remained defiantly bright among all the grey. The canoefolk huddled by the weir. The boathouse was the last place I expected to find trans graffiti but it was welcome. I holed up for a while in the Reservoir Cafe, which does a mean vegetarian sausage baguette.
There were a couple of good buskers in town Sunday: in Fletchers' Walk a guy with a semi-acoustic guitar and lots of effects pedals. The music was deceptively simple, a falling melody a little like the keyboard part in Broadcast's I Found The F. Something in the timbre made me colour it in with other instruments, a beat; I wanted to write whatever film he was soundtracking. Then a guy playing dulcimer on New Street, the instrument built either out of a chunk of piano or an old table. he used to be part of a jazzy five-piece. I wondered where his bandmates were but it was lovely to hear him on his own.
I saw JH for a good catch-up Saturday night. I'd found him a copy of Frank Lloyd Wright's autobiography in Wolverhampton, the second printing from 1943, for a princely fiver. A book as big as a paving slab, not illustrated as such, but the various chapters divided up by glossy pages with Deco lines scoring them like a circuit's skeleton.
I had a nightmare this morning of reading, becoming aware that something was reading over my shoulder; turned and there was a rag doll or glove-puppet twice my height standing over me. No head to it. The night before I dreamed of Joel, sitting curled up in some wheeled assemblage like an installation of bookshelves. That rattled me more, mostly because I either couldn't parse or remember what he was trying to tell me. The words were there when I woke, gone a few minutes later.
There were a couple of good buskers in town Sunday: in Fletchers' Walk a guy with a semi-acoustic guitar and lots of effects pedals. The music was deceptively simple, a falling melody a little like the keyboard part in Broadcast's I Found The F. Something in the timbre made me colour it in with other instruments, a beat; I wanted to write whatever film he was soundtracking. Then a guy playing dulcimer on New Street, the instrument built either out of a chunk of piano or an old table. he used to be part of a jazzy five-piece. I wondered where his bandmates were but it was lovely to hear him on his own.
I saw JH for a good catch-up Saturday night. I'd found him a copy of Frank Lloyd Wright's autobiography in Wolverhampton, the second printing from 1943, for a princely fiver. A book as big as a paving slab, not illustrated as such, but the various chapters divided up by glossy pages with Deco lines scoring them like a circuit's skeleton.
I had a nightmare this morning of reading, becoming aware that something was reading over my shoulder; turned and there was a rag doll or glove-puppet twice my height standing over me. No head to it. The night before I dreamed of Joel, sitting curled up in some wheeled assemblage like an installation of bookshelves. That rattled me more, mostly because I either couldn't parse or remember what he was trying to tell me. The words were there when I woke, gone a few minutes later.
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Date: 2017-08-01 04:17 am (UTC)Nice!
I had a nightmare this morning of reading, becoming aware that something was reading over my shoulder; turned and there was a rag doll or glove-puppet twice my height standing over me. No head to it.
Good job reading with no eyes. Brrrr.
*hugs*
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Date: 2017-08-01 04:52 pm (UTC)Yes - it made me smile, that and the inscription "LOVE'S NOT TIME'S FOOL". Some of the street names around there are begging for characters to fill them: "Osler" and "Freeth" both sound like Edwardian occultists to me.
*Good job reading with no eyes. Brrrr.*
Yeah. It was very, very Edward Gorey. Or Caitlin's story named for him.
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Date: 2017-08-01 04:55 pm (UTC)Oh, my God, you have to do something with that.
"Osler" and "Freeth" both sound like Edwardian occultists to me.
Seriously.
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Date: 2017-08-06 12:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-08-06 12:43 pm (UTC)