Regrettably, my new book 'Boiled Branches, Green Wood - A Book of Trespassers' is not as good as 'Shadow Ticket' but it is interesting, and it covers a lot of ground, and it is available now through Amazon, in paperback or on the kindle.
amazon.co.uk/dp/B0FQPRJ5NY
A themed YouTube playlist I made, titled The Embers of a Campfire - a playlist from midsummer. I would have put it on Spotify, but they don’t have Circle of Ash by Candidate, which I regard as integral.
youtube.com/playlist?list=PL…
I like this time of year. The newly-fledged birds form flocks comprised of their own siblings. I watch a trio of pied woodpeckers sound out the trunk of the crooked tree. There is a very patient robin - often they can be quite demanding when they know you have food; not this one.
There are backhanded compliments and then there is the Times Literary Supplement's summation of Imagist Poetry: "Even when it is not very good in itself, it seems to promise a form in which very good poetry could be written."
Regardless of how careful I am when re-potting my nepenthes, afterwards they go into a massive sulk that lasts several months. They are coming back now.
I harbour an irrational fear that, as I exercise with my kettlebell in the garden, with the dawn chorus building around me, I will be set upon by a lion, which, in the United Kingdom, is unlikely.
Revisiting the video for Weekender by Flowered Up, I recall a girl who approached me at 4am in Soho, London, back when I was sleeping rough. Home counties accent, track marks, somewhat the worse for wear. She asked if I had money. I told her I'd spent the night in a churchyard.
While attempting to write my way out of a corner I appear to have instead put up shelves, which are crooked. I am thinking of painting a faux mouse hole on the skirting board.
I was at ground zero for GamerGate so I know a purity spiral when I see one. The human reaction to AIs infiltrating literature is going to be worse than the AIs themselves. You can already hear the clamour of pitchforks carried on the ill wind. A prelude cries of: 'Witch!'
I have a literal thorn in the sole of my left foot. Where, pray tell, is Androcles to pull it out? I'll tell you where Androcles is: Mired in an allegorical folk tale where he is of no bleeding use to anyone.
Sometimes in show like Qunicy or MASH, a scene will open with a character telling the punchline of a joke and it's clear that the screenwriters didn't write the entire joke.
I don't think that should be allowed.