Busy. My version of busy.
Today I've watched the film Max Mon Amour , a sub-Bunuel confection with an excellent theme tune and a fabulous cast. I then recorded a series of vocals for a new Ebbing House song (there's a bit of unwanted grit in the voice, more a plank in the eye than sand in the oyster) and they're not half bad. I then continued my on canvas painting of James Joyce, finally committing to his eyes, which is more than they ever did for him. It actually came off pretty quickly and well. The painting should be finished tomorrow or, at the very latest, Friday. (Charlotte Rampling humming the start of Michel Portal's theme from Max Mon Amour) Between bouts of waiting for the paint to dry, I've started writing a series of short essays about my books. I'm terrible about talking about them because of the foul disease of Englishness: I dismiss the books, diminish them, bat them away as if they were a bad haircut or a poor fashion choice. They aren't. They're very good boo...
