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Friday 26 April 2019

Day 363: Golden light

OK well it is very late and I've felt beat to shit today, buttered over too much bread, and I refuse to stay up hours thinking about this, so you've got ten minutes, and then I'm out of here.

Wrecked from closes at work and snooker finals across the road and writing and no sleep and photographs and photo editing and ready meals and being 34 and running up and down cellar stairs shifting barrels for a decade. I'm old and I'm broken.

But I walked with my camera today and I went down streets I don't usually go down, and I looked up at buildings at weird angles and poked my lens between rails and got down low and got up high and it was good. You go the same roads your head hanging at the ground or in your phone and you're not alive. You go round that bar and you drink devil booze and you're numbed fugging stupid and you're not alive. You make the same jokes to the same dumb bartender hipsters and you're not alive.

But you take your lens and you watch for golden light hitting brick and for sun rays down dark alleys and you scramble round your city and that's a little bit alive. And you read old grappler Bukowski's letters in a coffee shop and that's good too. And you drink coffee, dark, strong coffee, and we're getting somewhere. Hell yes. You watch good cinema. You watch colour and texture in Rothko. You write your winding thoughts and day by day it accumulates, fighting back the blankness: thrumming vibrant life.

I don't know how it sustains, whether it wins, but there is life, and you have to remember. In the hollow times you have to remember. Life is here and it is good.

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