cockathedrale by katharine eastman
For someone who has only ever had two "proper" holidays in their whole life it's a bit stupid for me to pontificate about it all, but it's stupid me being here doing anything anyway, so in for a penny ..... but even now, four days after my weekend in Folkestone, I still think about it and realise that it has changed me, mainly in good ways, and I suppose this is what all the holiday-lovers were talking about on and on and on and all the time, perhaps I shouldn't've been in such a hurry to think they were all boring twats.
But mainly it has all determined me to continue treating every single day as a holiday - which is what I have been doing since I was about 23 - seriously - honestly - I never did a serious thing after that time, I never worried about money or a roof over my head. So for today's holiday a dear friend and I popped over to Winchester, home of the Hampshire Chronicle - the HC has an open day (two hours) once per year where they give you free cakes and sweets and a tote bag and a free newspaper and notepads and books and pens and more sweets and all you had to do was show an interest among the staff (one editor and three reporters) - something I am not good at, but my friend is good at that stuff, and in spite of appearances I really was interested too.
My favourite bit was going into a side-room and looking inside some of the huge bound volumes of old editions, from 1857 and so on - bigger than the Telegraph or FT is nowadays, but best of all just the whole black-and-white-ness of it - that austerity - and no illustrations, and print so tiny that even with my best glasses I still would've needed a magnifying glass - and the whole vast ocean of WORDS. Incredibly, and the only creditable thing I have ever done, the best thing, was when I was doing my favourite fanzine way back before any of you were born and way way mercifully-waaay before the internet was anything anywhere, and I tried to make it huge and all just a sea of dense words, no scrawl or pics or anything at all.
Only I could read it, and only I ever wanted to read it, and it contained such beauty, everything I had in me - all gone. I was sad at the time, knowing that everything I wrote was just water slipping down into the desert sands and instantly evaporating and not even a memory. Except, now, looking back, I am glad I did it and glad that it's all like it never never happened, never existed, and that is how I feel about my music now I suppose - when it has all vanished and it's like it never existed I shall remember it as another near-perfection, it is nice to live in this fantasy.
recorded this evening, photo Winchester today (the pic by Hendog)
