When is the winter over, please?

It has been just over a year since agreements were signed and my week didn't revolve around Clerkenwell. I come back into Town less often, feel less inclined to run into London at the drop of a handkerchief or a hat.  I still get that sense of homecoming that I got when I first set foot in the City 35 years ago, but I don't begrudge leaving it vegund

But it does surprise me how quickly the landscape can change. Buildings I left in proximity Liverpool Street, Bloomsbury -- Crouch End even -- are so altered as to not even be there. 

I make my way circuitously to Pushkin House for a talk on the cartography of terror and conflict. I stop by the F&M Archive to off-load the last bit of a handover, the esthetician,  Monmouth for coffee, a couple of other favourite haunts.  I pick copy of Yuri Rytkheu's The Chukchi Bible. 

The talk is interesting but is less about Society of the Spectacle using cartography as a frame and more about how conflict maps in 'elite media.' engaging and informative but I feel like I misunderstood: I had thought there would be more about the actual cartography of conflict, not just about media spectacle, and maybe a bit of discussion about Fin de Copenhagen, and how post-war experiences shaped the the creation of farewell to the idea of a place based on another.  The book was created in somewhere between 24-48 hours, or so lore tells us and I can't stop myself from wondering if the fatal pragmatism that makes up Society of the Spectacle wasn't born out of shame. 

In other speculation, I am in need of a purging cry, something intensely purifying and healing. It's on its way, I can feel it. But it isn't the kind of catharsis I can yank out of myself. SB came over today and we were sitting in the music room when I could feel what ever is brewing start speed up. 'I thought you were handling it all a bit to well,' she said with utmost gentleness.

I finally start to break through the shell Sunday morning. The tears start to come through easier. I recognise that I am going to need several hours to meditate and and just sit with the spillage but am conscious it can't be scheduled. There is this panicky feeling that I've been stuffing down my feelings but I can't even fathom what I am avoiding to know. 

Then I go to the groceries. I mean, I make the rounds. A little Sainsburys, a little Waitrose, a little Lidl. I'm walking the middle aisles at Lidl and all I can think is 'Jesus, if you wanted to break into being a serial killer, this would be the place to start.' 3M duct tape for 2.99. Tarpaulin for £7. Ooh, look! A plasma cutter for £50! You can burn through bone with that. I shudder to myself but also an idea for a series begins to form. 

And then I know I really need to get out more, do more gardening or the like.