There are times when I can do chutzpah. There are times when my life has depended on me being able to do chutzpah. However, there is no way I can be brazen enough to return to posting and just ignore the fact that English Dreaming, English Rain has been dead for months.
I feel as if I ought to apologise and explain. I certainly feel like I ought to start pulling handwritten entries from the Moleskin into the digital realm before they become totally lost to the Southwell mound of paper. Yet the distance between ought and action can be tough to travel when illness cuts into your body and the Black Dog worries you like unprotected livestock.
Pain reduces you. Pain warps you. It crushes your spirit as it does the nasty business of crumpling and denting the body. Twisted out of shape for so long, you are often too weak to defend yourself from the Barghest growl.
It has felt like life during wartime of late, but that is no excuse not to write. There have been good days worth recording. Blessings of love and friendship that should have been caught with words. Giving up is not an option. English Dreaming, English Rain goes on and so does the verbose bastard writing it. There is even going to be backfilling. How can I not tell tales of Shadow London, Iain Sinclair’s indecipherable hand, Luke Haines and boys with dinosaurs?