Algorithm.

I open the book I gave you
Out of my own interest, 
And it's Euclid's algorithm
That you have marked.
The last page you turned
Is the one I want to read.


I close the book.

Ailsa Craig.

And my absence this morning...

Just put it down

To sleeping off an existential crisis.

Drowning myself in lavender

I was composed to leave the house,

But there were still so many unanswered questions -

My entertainment for the evening.

Life drawings (technicolour special).

 

Springtime filing cabinet.

from Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier

Packing up. The nagging worry of departure. Lost keys, unwritten labels, tissue paper lying on the floor. I hate it all. Even now, when I have done so much of it, when I live, as the saying goes, in my boxes. Even to-day, when shutting drawers and flinging wide an hotel wardrobe, or the impersonal shelves of a furnished villa, is a methodical matter of routine, I am aware of sadness, of a sense of loss. Here, I say, we have lived, we have been happy. This has been ours, however brief the time. Though two nights only have been spent beneath a roof, yet we leave something of ourselves behind. Nothing material, not a hair-pin on a dressing-table, not an empty bottle of Aspirin tablets, not a handkerchief beneath a pillow, but something indefinable, a moment of our lives, a thought, a mood. 
   This house sheltered us, we spoke, we loved within those walls. That was yesterday. To-day we pass on, we see it no more, and we are different, changed in some infinitesimal way. We can never be quite the same again. Even stopping for luncheon at a way-side inn, and going to a dark, unfamiliar room to wash my hands, the handle of the door unknown to me, the wall-paper peeling in strips, a funny little cracked mirror above the basin; for this moment, it is mine, it belongs to me. We know one another. This is the present. There is no past and no future. Here I am washing my hands and the cracked mirror shows me to myself, suspended as it were, in time; this is me, this moment will not pass.
   And then I open the door and go to the dining-room, where he is sitting waiting for me at a table,  and I think how in that moment I have aged, and passed on, how I have advanced one step towards an unknown destiny.
   We smile, we choose our lunch, we speak of this and that, but - I say to myself - I am not she who left him five minutes ago. She has stayed behind. I am another woman, older, more mature...

Sad Jexy

The beginnings of a frustrated animator.

Sequence.8.5.3.

"This isn't much, couldn't concentrate"

More Noise Please.

And the past...

Is always with us,
But it looks different wherever I go.

Walking home

From the train before the last, 
The old man two houses up
Still falls asleep in front of the TV.


I'm glad his wife's not sitting with him,
She always draws the curtains.


I can see the football's on,
Some things never change.