Wet white day, cloud too thick for real light, flecks of rain flocking round early christmas lights. Rain you don't notice until you're wet. Stinging flecks of grit and pollutants flying off the buses, black mud oozing out from between paving stones, the wet air spreading the oil spots on the road until they look like two-dimensional jellyfish in a black tarmac sea.
Found an antique treasure through Pete's weblog; the wistful and beautiful They that go down to the sea in ships. Recommended both for people who like looking at pictures of sailors, and people who like looking at mysterious echoes of the past.
[the afternoon becomes dimmer]
Evening falls in levels of grey, rooftops dissolving into the dirty-soft sky. The slick pavement, greyer than the sky, gleams softly with early lights, and everything, walls, buses, cars, coats, is coated with a glitzy sheen of dirty water, and shimmers with pearly colour (red for brake lights, blue for neon, yellow for windows) in the afternoon murk. Cars blinded by rain-fogged windows start and stop, and people hurry, identity eroded by bent heads, anonymous coats. Everything moving strikes glints of iridescent light through veils of sinking grey, less gaudy than an oil slick, more profane than a pearl, my opal city.
Working through the centre updates, siezed by ennui. Pulled out my pile of rough paper to see if a brief doodle would help re-energise me (strawberry tea had already failed) and realised I was drawing dear old Aubrey Beardsley, so drew him a deliciously elaborate dressing gown in the hopes that he'd be pleased enough to give me some useful advice.
Jeremy: Can you help me, Aubrey?
Aubrey: PERHAPS THE PROBLEM IS THAT I ALREADY AM?
Should have known he'd be no practical help.
[go home now, Jeremy]