I’m a little homesick for my London home now. I’m fed up of living in a hotel. They are lovely if a little unwilling here in The Purple Palace. Nobody is here vocationally but different people manifest different priorities in the business of being good at their jobs. I like the guys but you’ll often see a frown flicker over their countenance when you come with a question. I shouldn’t be so fucking sensitive all the time but hi.
I think I’m gonna strike South when I’m done here. St Malo ferry, and then down. I’m gonna head to the riviera for New Year. I might get a shot at seeing family and old friends on the way but I will spend my NYE alone with ritual, where it’s a little bit warmer.
Then it’ll be back up fast so I can get some Lou-time before I’m back into the London mix.
This Jersey Carol has been brilliant. If the houses had been better I would suspect it was the start of an institution. There’s been so many people with their various energies. When I think of the mystic grounding this ancient land gave me growing up, I’m very happy to walk there streets again, to look at the cliffs, to try and imagine what it was for the lost ones that I knew so well. For mum it was home, for dad it was prison. For me it is neither. It’s an old ground. I can see it for the beauty and the warmth just as I can see how the walls would start to close in. If I had property here still I could think about it more practically. I don’t. It is beyond my reach, a memory, nostalgia. Such things are pleasant while you are bathing in them but they quickly get stale if you’re looking to stay present.
I’ll have time to properly cover this island over Christmas. I’ll be able to wash down the gravestones and touch up the writing.
Bed now, and tomorrow I’m meeting a friend of Will’s who grew up very close to me and is just as full of mystic story as I can be. I’m looking forward to meeting him. I’m still playing with the idea of coming home.
AlBarclay 