My Empire of Dirt

On the coastline of the Louisiana-Texas border the day began with a 20ft wave crashing in from the sea, and a second wider wave of personal fear, despair and destruction. In London the day started out with a lie-in despite clear blue skies - seems longer than 4 days since the last. London granted a few hours of summer-reprise, but now approaches evening with a low blanket of autumnal grey. At 1.30 I sat in Marios and read reviews of Ian Sinclairs new book, a walk from Epping to Huntingdon, and a surreal new art movie which draws upon Weirs Picnic at Hanging Rock. I ruminate on the wonderful world of prose, the journeys of writing and roaming, and the 'transgressive nature of walking', changing perspectives and evolution of form.

I return to the chaos of the room, the space I call home, and fall into a rare saturday scenario of chilled apathy, creating a new playlist dedicated to Rita and Katrina. The Byrds, Wendy Carlos and Tom Vek feature, but its Johnny Cash that steals the show, and puts a kind of perspective on that event...

I hurt myself today
to see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
the only thing that's real...

...if I could start again
a million miles away
I would keep myself
I would find a way

Like a scene in a DeLillo story I attempt to monitor the storm clouds gathering at Sugar Land Rita Webcam. A state of exhaustion permeates the place - I fell foul of the pitch hangover this week, a condition further evidenced by falling out with Jake (over nothing much - the neighbours cat, and the perpetually soaking bathmat). With my girl also, something stirring in the flood waters, and sometimes feeling too tired to stay bouyant. Just not got enough energy right now.

I've yet relay the hours spent recovering from last weekend, and in particular the 36 hours Mum and Dad were in town. Despite Mums increasing discomfort with long walks, we roamed in a way we never have - less haste, no plan and very little friction. We wandered without any real itinerary: Hyde Park, Mile End and Bow, Greenwich for beers at Cutty Sark, mediterranean food in Upper Street. Quality family time, in unusual circumstances, and I'm as glad of that as they clearly were.