bluntie

yet. just a bitterly cold and barren wasteland of earth un-forthcoming.
this is an old one (repost…) in an old style, but a timeless melodrama.

the sun comes out. i read the guardian and have a cup of tea from a design mug after a saturday trip to the garden shop. should have bought some organic olives from the local farmer’s markets too.
but i do have six tiny trays of dirt and seeds now, as well as two planter boxes designed from found unwanted furniture in the local neighbourhood and using a restrained colour-way. i hope you like my vegetable garden, which will flourish any day now.

today for the first time i hated london and england, but then just as i looked out my window onto the slow darkening of a damp sun-less sky, a tiny light came on in a neighbouring house and it looked warm. and my own room was warm too. the problem with reading Viktor Frankl’s Nazi death camp memoir Man’s Search for Meaning is that every time i try to mope i hit my head against a wall of relative luck and comfort.

a couple of weeks ago my dream was so vivid: of this children’s book called Lupinchen. I bought it from amazon but it is in german. judging from the beautiful illustrations: a story about a girl called lupinchen who (of course with her funny friends) builds a house from paper. poor lupinchen, before her decorations and dinner parties are complete the winds blow the house away and  it is skillfully transformed into an origami paper plane and then, crash-landing in the ocean, into a paper boat. eventually, and after having discarded all her crockery, this too sinks, and the paper can’t save her. so a big bird does. it’s beautiful.

in primrose hill the pale low sun brightens white against dark knuckle trees and crispy winter sky.
the museum of everything is a cavernous sequence of rooms, up stairs and down low-ceilinged hall-ways; a big old house filled with strangeness. these are works by jailed mental patients, racists, homophobes and the common unsettled. nostalgia, sentimentality, darkness, and heavy-handed penmanship aside, there are beautiful tiny drawings: schizophrenic oswald tschirtner’s drawings of squids, intricate watercolours of russian guns. the stories were engrossing, not that i read many; it was the final week of exhibition and the big musty house was packed tightly with people who have blogs.