The bedsprings of life

Another weekend slowly morphs into the early hours of Monday morning and I realise I’ve spent another weekend in gross, slavish obedience to the DIY beast. This weekend was, however, the last in the current series of “Let’s Do DIY: The Endurance Edition”, which is to say, I have learnt much, but at a cost of the usual gratifications of the eye and of the ear. Now all I need is a desk upon which to write and a corner within which to strum.

For the time being, I shall be reading Proust’s Swann’s Way – a book I actually feared I would never readily become accustomed to for its prolonged, verbose sentences. There is a point though, after about fifty pages, when words stop appearing as faded, black stamps on mustard coloured paper and collectively start to form the backbone of a wondrous craft. It’s the kind of book whose sculpture is so meticulously composed that I can’t think any word I write from this day forth would ever be of any use, value or importance to anyone but myself. The last time I was this struck by a novel was the Glass Bead Game and that wasn’t so much a slap in the face as a metaphorical scholarly beating.

Having just finished a freelance web producer stint, all my mind’s eye can see as it creaks its neck into the distance is Proust, bike rides in Dulwich and Peckham, and penning some musical notes on paper.

Ah life. How I have missed thee.