Rain. Ministry's Psalm 69 playing. Gray light of my room, seeping in like sleep I see the green of the trees in the gardens, in the fragment of gardens in the gap in the curtains. My floor is a mess of old comics and clothes. The curtains move. There is autumn out there, The first traces. Watching the coming of autumn is like watching the coming of Christmas when you're a kid.
I shall be revisiting childhood landscapes this week, heading up to by train to Scotland tomorrow, to Inverness and from there a short train ride to Kinloss and Forres, all those places whose power to fascinate has only grown over the years.
I wishes I had written more about the trip before, but it all seemed too much to write about, and anyway, the 'i' on my keyboard isn't working properly and makes writing anything incredibly irritating, hence the paucity of entries here of late.
