4am on a Summer morning of one of the coldest years I have known, and I can't sleep. Another academic year ends; a year without my mother, without that strong, fierce mad drama of her defiance, draws on. Friends get on with their lives, some of choice, some of necessity, and I get ready to move from this memorable flat. I cannot sleep and can't not think. I remember sitting in an hotel looking out over Istanbul two Christmases ago and being unable to sleep, throwing Yeats into the night; perhaps that would help. I need some mind that if the cannon sound From every quarter of the world can stay wound in minds pondering as mummies of the mummy cloth are wound Because I have a marvellous thing to say A certain marvellous thing None but the living mock Though not for sober ear It may be that all hear Should laugh and weep an hour upon the clock Except that I have no marvellous thing to say. The mummy cloth thing just makes me think of silliness anyway; a Daily Mail ...
This is a collection of personal and largely unedited observations covering the years from 2006 to now; I assert my copyright but am fine with links and footnotes. Some posts are obviously much more researched than others, and any errors are wholly mine except where I have innocently disseminated or linked to other bloggers or commentators.