Today I spent the morning looking at photos I took while in Barcelona, St. Ives, and London. A mixture of sadness and joy, simultaneously, emerged. I am reading CP's new manuscript The Liberties (again) this evening: writing notes about repetition and British idioms and truncated rhythms (in a good way). I'm noticing how much I focus on little things, like where the period goes in relation to the parentheses--sometimes inside, sometimes outside. I wrote 3000 words to my grad students on their hybrid projects this week (and the previous week as well). I am a reader of words and a writer of words to others, but I need to be a reader/writer for my own project. I need to write 3000 words to myself about the degradation of borders, about faint symptoms inside mutations, about reversing the color field.
The Liberties & the photos are making me feel nostalgic for London:
For evenings watching Dr. Who.
For Tikka Masala at the Indian restaurant near the corner of Charleville and North End Road. (I even went to Whole Foods today to buy lamb so I could simmer it in tomatoes and cream and spices; the sugars began to caramelize on the bottom of the pan, browning the meat.)
For afternoons alone in my tiny flat where I wrote random notes in a red notebook & in a moleskin and stared at Rothko images for hours.
