The morning after

Today I was described as a beautiful mess. I didn't know whether to take it as a compliment or not but it will definitely teach me to a) not forget to tend to my hair before leaving the house b) remove last night's make up c) not lie with Maggie in a melancholic heap on the studio floor looking up at the ceiling whilst the new first years come round and see you in the grasp of varying emotional crises d) try and avoid being hungover as it inevitably leads to an alarming dependence on cherry coca cola and orange ribena and everything else I can't really afford.

I will return to cultural things soon. Honest. I have a bookshelf of untempered pages, an art gallery section in Timeout requiring some much overdue attention and a new studio space which is very definitely going to be the proud owner of a coat hook. I also has some minor flashes of inspiration involving thread when I was struggling back from Asda with some baguettes.

To Sophie

Happy Birthday! I hope it is filled with less sexual innuendos and more cake.

Cold

It is getting dark at seven in the evening and I am awaiting winter's onslaught. My iPod battery died when the sky was fuzzing into twilight. There are galaxy caramel fingerprints on my keyboard and I woke up in a pile of orange peel this morning. I have £3.76 in my bank account and a library fine that knocked £18.60 out of me. I am typing in my dimly lit room and feeling a sense of melancholy wash over me. I blame Barthes.

'The Ghost Ship

errance / errantry

Though each love is experienced as unique and though the subject rejects the notion of repeating it elsewhere later on, he sometimes discovers in himself a diffusion of amorous desire; he then realizes he is doomed to wander until he dies, from love to love.'

A Lover's Discourse.

Scribbles

Grey

Rainy, miserable. That means only one thing. A day indoors with a really badly made cup of coffee (a skill I need to master), the internet and my den's worth of books at my disposal.

Having watched The Boat That Rocked for the first time I have become attached to the soundtrack. One problem, I'm trying to read about Brechtian theatre and be generally productive for lectures starting. This is impossible when I get so emotionally involved in Procol Harum, Cat Stevens and Otis Redding, they make me want to lay back on my bed and contemplate life. I'm sure Brecht and the Kinks are pretty incongruous anyway. I have become worryingly attached to my earphones recently, so much so I get slightly annoyed when I'm not travelling on public transport on my own, thus meaning I can't block off the world and form a shit soundtrack to the sights of Peckham that crawl on by.

Work. After three months I have managed to set up my scanner. Impressive work Ann-Marie. It pretty much follows my daydream reverie about clouds and patterns, also the idea of forming something as a whole and creating multiple possibilities for it. Blah art talk. So below are a few things I have done, I'm not inventive enough for titles.

New Favourite Song

Up on Melancholy Hill

There's a plastic tree.

Are you here with me?

Just looking out of the day of another dream.

Yes yes and yes

Greg Eason