journal

Ageing isn't fun, really, but perhaps you need to be aware that all the time one is about to slide on a banana-peeled edge of a grave: death is a hair-breadth away. His chin is on your shoulder, his breath mixes with yours, and his chilly fingers are a fraction away from your neck. In a way it is quite comforting: to me to start believing I HAVE to live in the moment. It is actually all the time that is mine, that that inhales and exhales with me as I type this... cheers! (time for another sip of wine). Besides of course that his hairs are on my chin! We were talking beards in the sauna this morning. The women are getting their 16 year old daughters to have their facial hairs lasered off. Glad I'm not one of their children: they seem so focused on getting somewhere instead of just sommer being. I'm feeling odd: I think the poison I've sprayed in the house today is getting to my brain! I'd better get outside again. Speak to you soon. I wrote a whole paragraph but I don't think I saved it, so this is just going to have to do!

Jeremy asks plaintively why my standards are so low. Why did my first bit of typing disappear? Did I press enter by mistake? I don't know if it is a good thing to write rubbish ... is it? I am so tired, could I be poisoned by the air in this house I wonder. I sprayed Malasol outside, and Fenonda (or something inside!) I don't know I suppose I don't particularly care. I mull a lot, thinking about death a lot recently. I must actually write about the images ... I mean to.