Dawn of the Shed

 I've been writing in my shed. It's not quite a Jaguar. 

I love writing in the shed, especially at this time of year. It was a blustery, autumnal day, and you're much closer to the weather in the shed, its a thin defence against the elements. When the wind howls, it's that bit closer. When it rains, it's like you're Turner, lashed to the mast in a sea fret, big white shirt leaving nothing to the imagination. I like being buffeted by the wind and knowing I'm fine. It can't get me. I'm safe. I'm cosy. 

I work longhand in the shed. Lately I've been alternating between painting - always done in the house - and writing short stories, by hand, in the shed. There's no social media in the shed. No Alexa. No distractions. There's a fire damaged CD player and a collection of 10 CDs, which I listen to over and over again. Somehow, Spirit of Eden by Talk Talk is a house CD. Laughing Stock is a shed staple. 

I've been writing a book of short stories and, today, I finished the last story. It's a bit odd. The whole collection is a bit odd. I'm very excited by these stories. They sprawl. They do different things. They were written over a long period of time, the oldest being, perhaps, fifteen years old. The newest about six hours old but, like a baby deer, it's already up on its feet, even if they're splayed and precarious like a schoolroom music stand. I don't know if there's a continuity of thought through these stories, repeating themes or obsessions. The early ones are funny, nihilistic and short. They were written in pain and absurdity. The latter ones are sadder, more concerned with fractured identity, paranoia, a losing of the sense of self. I lived in London for twenty years, and these feel like stories that are related to the big city, as though it's taken my sluggish constitution twenty years to process the experience. There's a bafflement, a lack of comprehension, a suspicion that helpful information has been hidden from you. Maybe that's the theme, that existing in the modern world is to experience erasure, powerlessness and defeat, in a way that is displayed to us with a sense vulgar exhibitionism. We're post conspiracy theory, it's all out there, and madder and more ridiculous than you could have possibly imagined. You will wax nostalgic for the days of the surprisingly shadowy illuminati, but the genie's not getting stuffed back in the bottle. It's out out, in it's best shirt and shiniest shoes. It's going to fuck shit up. 

Maybe that's the spirit of this book, walking abroad, insensible, confused and collapsed in a cafe toilet. Searching for meaning and meaning it, pulling faces into the abyss.