I’ve been working on my first review for PANK and finding it unusually stressful. I just really want it to be good enough, but the language of critique is hard for me. Always I cannot see with a clinical eye, but have to touch everything instead, working out the shapes and textures. Right now, I’m waiting for D to have time to proofread what I’ve done so far, to point out any weaknesses or confusion so that I can smooth them away. Added to this, I’m also waiting for the weekend, when D will be able to sit down and read the manuscript of the current with me, to play spot-the-no. No, this doesn’t make sense, no, this is not clear enough, no, this does not sing.
That means, for now, I have set the manuscript aside, cannot fiddle with it even a bit. I have nothing for my hands to do: I keep hearing dud notes through the wall, and it irks. But a bit of distance is necessary. Writing is waiting, not just typing. Not even thinking – sometimes the silence is needed, to let the subconscious seethe and click, like a nest of something, a swarm of something, knitting away in the dark.
I have, after much of humming and hawing, finally decided that the title is not what I want for it, that it should be Dear Friends and Gentle Hearts, so that’s what it shall be from now on. The last words found written on a piece of paper, inside a wallet, on the body of Stephen Foster, writer of ‘Oh! Susanna’, ‘Beautiful Dreamer’. It carries more within it than a generational descriptor. It hints, it hums sweetly, but not too sweetly.
Anyway, to keep my mind from rattling too much, I’m posting these pictures of Spring. Soothing, and only pleasant, of the blossoms on the ornamental cherries which seem to be everywhere in this city. You turn a corner and there they are, heavy with puffs of white or pink. These were taken behind the National Museum, beside the Potterrow Port: