I returned home expecting the cloud of concern and disquiet of last year to have dissipated, restoring me to my regular excited-and-anxious-about-everything self, but instead I came home caring less about the need to worry.
My bucket ‘o good ideas is as empty as it ever was, save for that one now-shrivelled nugget that was left out too long in the sun.
Unrelated: If I started writing about Thailand, I’d never stop, despite the fact that it’s a topic already thoroughly covered on every bored, single, white girl’s blog. Don’t worry; the last thing I’m looking for on holiday is ‘myself’. We went to a goddamn sky bar and loved it, for fuckssake.
I can see the appeal of becoming a travel writer. One of the safe ones that doesn’t deal with the things you can’t un-see that clash with your Western ideals. No bags of live [___] or small cages stuffed with [___] or all those godforsaken, begging amputees.
I wish I remembered that I took these monochrome forest-y photos before I tore away with my etching – progress photos to follow at the end of this week. Prints to follow later.
Still; dark daytime woods, huh? I love a bit of National Trust fun-time.
This is Cragside; arguably the best of the National Trust home-and-grounds I’ve visited.
Yesterday was the best we’ve had in two years.
I walked to work. Taking the really long route through Leazes Park, I was bouncing along like the happiest asshole in the world.
Last week it snowed. Every once in a while, the planets align so that I’m inside my studio (this time, gloriously, one with a large second floor window) while outside snowflakes the size of plums make their way to the street.
If I could pay for it to happen again, I would – but I suppose the fact that snow functions beyond such human ugliness is what makes it so special.
I’m hoping hard that it happens again.