saturday, small hours - insomnia
As far back as I can remember the history of bedtime has been one of consciousness; of hours awake listening to the sound of other people breathing. In here, I can hear Damian breathing, even over the minidisc that isn't really the best for sending me to sleep but it's the best of the ones I have with me. When I turned on the music he abruptly got much louder, as if to compensate, adding further weight to my theory that people snore not on purpose but deliberately, in order to subtly reinforce dominance on social lessers through forcinq them to adapt and cope with an invasion of space (or alternatively suffer sleep deprivation) - and that this is chiefly carried out to settle dominance issues within couples. Sub/conscious assertion of social dominance through sleep behaviours. I wonder if anyone's done a study? In the corridoor, I can hear Damian, Jo and Alex, out in the main room, Ruth and Jenni. I'm in Cockshutt cottage and there is nowhere that doesn't sound of sleeping person.
I stayed up as late as I reasonably could, drank as much as I reasonably could. I've tried telling stories to myself and counting Damian's breaths. It's no good; I still can't sleep - and, as an added bonus, I'm also tired, bored, and experiencing the inexorable unfolding of a hangover. I might be able to work. But everywhere's full of sleeping people. So I'm lying here unassertively listening to music at three of three, draining the batteries on my palm by running the backlight, dark enough outside there's no loose light to go and sit in.
Dark, and full of owls.
saturday, afternoon - grey and brown world
Something about the flow of the valley turns me around and leaves me blundering between piles of poo. Sleep deprivation? Crossed energy lines? Bad karma from eating cow because I saw some nice brown ones in a field? You have to like brown to enjoy looking at December; the forest is in every shade of dun, the mud, mud-coloured. Even the green ivy and red berries look like they have brown mixed in. The wooded sides of the valleys are complicated and flat like abstract embroidery on canvas, brutal because it's subtle. We walk along the bottom of a dry valley between a dry river and a dry canal, reach a warm pub. "It's funny round here," says the man behind the bar, "Masses of water when it rains, but as soon as it stops, gone." When DEbra goes back for her hat I climb a steep bank because I'm bored, because it's there, because I like going up hills. I grab a rotten branch and nearly fall back down again. Safely over the top I find; a small pile of poo.
sunday, morning - walking from Cockshutt to Hornston
Stupidly picturesque, like a calendar collage of December on the farm; animals (kitten, chicken, farmer, cows, sheep, dog, horses) isolated in vast expanses, lit by the leant-far-back sun, gilding and shadows and a cold blue sky. Banbury Road sign. Why? Still too bright for my broken camera. Collagy, like we, creators of stuck-together story made from things we've found (pagan rites, badgers, piles of poo) things we like (monkeys, robots, David Attenborough) bits of us and aspects of here and fragments of old stuff we remember. Big breakfasts and boozy evenings. Woods are full of old man's beard.
[comment] Probably the most interesting thing about the weekend for me was working with a writer -- being presented with a series of problems, show this, portray this, include this. Curious like a logic puzzle, a problem. I played pretty fast and loose with the script -- probably bad of me. The worst thing was how I couldn't hit a comfortable working speed; the same problem as has been dogging me throughout this last month, always I'm ill, I can't focus, it's uncomfortable, I can run it for about three lines and then it's gone. Frustrating and aggravating, like constantly having to fight for balance on slippery ground. Also being called "prolific" -- always depressing. On the whole, though, I can't recommend it enough. This christmas, sod visiting the folks -- grab some mates and head off somewhere remote to make a comic (film, photos, books, collages, artworks, whatever you like to do). It's fab.