We walked, yesterday, in the forest. Collected pine cones, and embraced nature until it scratched our faces with needles. The Christmas decorations will again be green and red.

This, then.

Another start after all of the delays. Looking into the mirror is no longer enough to quell the need to publicly narciss. I know, I know, but how do you think words ever get created?

From this to this

Its been some considerable time since I’ve written any commentary about the day to day. After all, the poetry is my documentary, and for the periods when the pen is silent, I am probably dead.

But, that aside, some changes have occurred. One that can be published here is that I no longer live in the original city of this place, having moved, last year, across the road* to a new place. This place. Of course.

*In this instance, the road is indicative of a geological boundary, as well as a means of transport.

The old place – or That Place, as it is now known – is a past whose memories can be kept alive as only the happiness of guilt and regret can muster.

What happened?

So. That went quite fast then; faster than I expected, and so I didn’t quite get chance to see in 2010 with any more than a shudder, and then, well, here we are in a new year. So happy new year to one and all.

Thus far, I have managed to break all of my new year’s resolutions, since I am neither sober nor fitter, and yet still retain a fear of social contact such that here I am, on a saturday night, compiling details for a tax return rather than doing anything more interesting with my life. We went out today, though, and I took photos. That is the new mission: to overcome the loss of creativity that took its cancerous grip in 2010, and to photograph, maybe to write, and perhaps sometimes to set fire to buildings in a particularly artistic way.

2011 brings with it the promise to shoot my second feature film. This is truly an adventure, and those can be good, once the panic of existence is put to oneside.

Perhaps poetry will come back. I miss the lines, and still compose, sometimes, in my head. But they rarely make it out, staying instead in the prison of imagination, awaiting the release of the iceman.

Welcome, then, to the new year. Welcome to the new old, to the promise of change and the reliability of not. Welcome to the hope that sometimes lasts until almost the end of the first month, before the self delusion is drowned and the new year turns to carbon of the past.

May it be happy, and prosperous, to one and all.