12:12 a.m. I'm listening to Nick Drake's "Bryter Layter" again, a record guaranteed to put me in a pensive mood. Moreover, tonight I watched Billy Collins, poet laureate, read his poetry, rather funny and seemingly accidentally profound poems about language and nostalgia that seems shot through, every one of them, with an awareness of death: another guarantee of putting one in a contemplative self-critical anomie, especially at 12:12 in the morning.

I feel old. I feel beyond recompense and thoughtful measure; I have this uncomfortable and rather novel feeling of having failed at something, though I can't pinpoint what that something is. Paradoxically, I recognise that feelings of this genre is indicative of being young and self-pitying: the enormous self-regard of the young, when ambition still burns bright. Am I ambitious? Fuck, no.

I must stop listening too carefully at poetry readings and to singers who've died romantically young. I will do this: next Lent, perhaps.

the Funny Show

agriculture poem

my life in the ghost of Bush

time-lapsed (part 1)

unreconciled

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Images are taken without permission from the fine and trusting folks at Folk Arts of Poland; please purchase something from them. Background music stolen without permission from Epitonic, Basta Music, and just about everywhere else my unscrupulous hands could grab something. No rights reserved.

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