I think I've had my fill of people, for the year. So many parties, so many people, so much loud chatter and falling about drinking and dancing with each other. I think I've had enough of anything more than tete-a-tete. Since New Year's Eve I have not spoken to more than one person at once, I'm not counting The Peachettes because it doesn't count as a social outing to walk down the hall and make a cup of tea in the kitchen.
I have telephoned people, people have telephoned me, I have sat at my drums while Robert instructs me in the art of deliberately moving my limbs in careful order but I have not attended one cafe, one party, one dinner or tea. I have slept late every morning and then done exactly as I liked, sometimes keeping the affairs of PAN in order, sometimes writing columns but mostly undertaking those minute to minute intrigues like examining a seashell, placing coloured pencils in spectrum order, drawing one blue line on ivory paper. These kinds of things are best done now, before proper work begins, before February drops its heavy blanket of super-heated atmosphere, before all traces of celebration have vanished and I get dragged up under the wheel arches of ordinary motion and my new desk becomes old.
This afternoon I might examine a translucent plastic cassette case, listen to the slide of plastic dragging before the satisfying clack of closure. A cassette case is more pleasing than a cd case, better to hold in the palm of the hand, proportions more similar to a book, feels more open when opened with that slim exposure of plastic return holding fast the album art. It is almost as good as sliding a key into a post office box.
I have telephoned people, people have telephoned me, I have sat at my drums while Robert instructs me in the art of deliberately moving my limbs in careful order but I have not attended one cafe, one party, one dinner or tea. I have slept late every morning and then done exactly as I liked, sometimes keeping the affairs of PAN in order, sometimes writing columns but mostly undertaking those minute to minute intrigues like examining a seashell, placing coloured pencils in spectrum order, drawing one blue line on ivory paper. These kinds of things are best done now, before proper work begins, before February drops its heavy blanket of super-heated atmosphere, before all traces of celebration have vanished and I get dragged up under the wheel arches of ordinary motion and my new desk becomes old.
This afternoon I might examine a translucent plastic cassette case, listen to the slide of plastic dragging before the satisfying clack of closure. A cassette case is more pleasing than a cd case, better to hold in the palm of the hand, proportions more similar to a book, feels more open when opened with that slim exposure of plastic return holding fast the album art. It is almost as good as sliding a key into a post office box.
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