imageHow fickle my moods. Today everything is fine. I fell asleep at around 2am and wake at 7. I make some lemongrass and green tea. An anti-oxidant. Shuffle in some sort of slippers from kitchen to bathroom and pee for what seems an eternity. Collect from radiator outside of bathroom and head back to bed. Pick up a book from the shelves and begin to read. Almost forgetting the tea. A car passes outside which brings my attention to the cup, to the oatcakes covered in crab apple and bramble jelly that I had made earlier in the autumn. I want the sweetness to linger in my mouth. But it does not as I wash it down with near luke warm tea. Our experiences ephemeral recorded in the mind as memory. I had a bottle of Pomerol in November. I know that it tasted very good. An elegant and sophisticated layering on the palate. But to remember, to describe what it actually tasted like I am at a loss. I laugh. I also know that I am lucky. Someone else bought it. I couldn’t afford such an affluent libation.
When I get up I make some coffee. The only plan for the day is to chop wood. To make soup. To subsist simply. Pottage du jour; swede, carrots, tomato and kidney beans given some invigoration with a few chillies and some thinly sliced ginger. Perhaps there is in the back of the mind an urge to write or create. I build the fire and leave it behind and go outside to the woodshed to split some logs. The light on the mainland a variety of blues and greys. I have thermals on beneath my clothes and soon I begin to sweat. As soon as I sweat I immediately think of having a bath. A bath means jazz on a Saturday. Yes, it’s Saturday. I almost forgot. Sometimes, you are right, the island leans heavily upon me. But that is the consequence of having to deal with beauty. Of having to deal with certain amount of isolation.
Sit in the bath. Warm and foamy. Radio on. Though I’m not really listening. I’m distracted by something though I can’t define what it is. But I am not unhappy.
Fill a large white bowl with soup. I wonder if this was one of the bowls I brought back from Hong Kong six years ago. Why bring something so plain back half way across the world. I mean it looks like something that might be bought in IKEA. Sit down and open your mail. I look at the bowl then back to your text. The bowl should be full of Chinese food. Shouldn’t it? You are right. You must do all these things that make you feel good and announce that this is what you like and practise them. It is another beautiful image. I wonder if you are recording dates and time of when images are taken. Do you look and see the obvious and the subtle changes.
I go to the log basket and pick out some ash wood. It seems to give off more heat. I take a bottle of Ledaig down from amongst the CDs and pour myself a dram.



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