June, longer than any that’s gone before; how time stretches when it’s this full. Memory can’t keep up, I am worn out and thin by experience but made richer by it all than I ever could’ve hoped to be. I am deep in making a new novel, it has me by the skin, the nape of my neck; I do not know what it will do to me, only that it will. Below: a list of June things.
so sad, so sexy
when the bell rings at the end of Sopranos and cut -
London rooftops at dusk
insect bites; see, you can still feel
crossing yourself in Rome
the Edna O’Brien documentary
see, you almost believe again
writing a sunset only to turn round in Cagliari and there it is
Naples, every time
as if you have written a thing into being
swallows darting all over the place
black as a personality substitute
Lykke Li on the red eye
stanstead: possibly worse than Euston
summer solstice
and it’s been four years since you died
and nothing between here and Africa where you did your dying
things the Swallows know
maybe if I kept swimming, I’d get home
we’ve all taken up poetry
anchovies
signs and portents
the way the water’s green once you’re past the rocks
espresso at 11pm
also a metaphor in that
gin tonics
crossing yourself in Sardinia
Sabrina Carpenter
the air the morning after a thunder storm
the Colosseum
Frank O’Hara
long lunches with people more interesting than you
becoming lost in translation
Eva Hesse’s diaries, again
just because it looks fun, doesn’t mean it is
when you walk out the plane and the heat hits you
John Fowles’ The Collector, again
chasing moths around the house
Hunter S. Thompson, again
bold kids are the future
illegal wars, again
are memes the new novel - think on it
could you live on a boat?
just because it’s legal, doesn’t mean it’s ok
think less, write more
pink walls
scampi fries and beer
just because it’s pop doesn’t mean it’s not art
almost outrunning the rain
the scent of jasmine at night
not insisting on everything being art
2 euro for an espresso
the slow coastal train
summer parties as a torture device
"Deep in a new novel" is music to these weary ears. Keep writing, my friend, I am in need of nourishment.
And only you, Ali, could craft a list into so very much more.