1. Pursuing with static vigour the idea of Autumn – that is to say, ideas collected from other countries (North America, mainly). Leaves red and orange. Mist. A little bird skeleton with the wings still on. Mushrooms and toadstools. Camp fires. Slugs and black beetles under stones coming out when the rain does. My tweets accrue on the subject, while I stay indoors looking at a milk sky, trying to:
2. Write essays for the Necessary Fiction residency. Write a recap for The Female Gaze. I need to start, I stare at the blinking cursor, my head in the mountains, my hands rustling leaves. I link too much, I stand signing. I am a sign of myself.
3. Awaiting. Waiting. Which has more verve, more glamour? To await something. Waiting on something. Waiting for. This is the linguistic exploration of someone at a bus stop, looking both ways and there is nothing and the phone battery is dead and you forgot your book. No cars. A deer up ahead, ghostly on splayed foot. My white deer, I think of you. It disappears around behind the corner shop and the recycling bins.
4. All the waiting leads to omens. To rituals – checking things, expecting things. Imagined deer. But a magpie did land on my window sill however many days ago. I couldn’t see it, but knew from the rattle. When I got up to look I only caught sight on the wings, the gloss – and it landed in a rowan tree, and there is no meaning in this, of course not.
5. No writing. Writing fiction will be October. I want cold breath and a clear head for that time.