working three-day weeks at the mo, which are mostly reserved for composition (in the morning - i'm at my best dewy-eyed and fresh from la dreamworld) study and/or annotation (actually at work) and miscellaneous impersonal chores after - before tumbling into unconsciousness and resumption of the same sad cycle. the four-day period bookending such is reserved for the more time-intensive tasks. this week was the page design for paintedgalaxy.co.uk (which i now own, though you you won't find much there as yet).
friday was hijacked somewhat by infecting town centre with rad new poster. cold. that night, 20 Jazz Funk Greats + The Do, which impressed still further the second time. like i said to swayzee, the best thing is that they don't have to compromise to a projected dancefloor of median taste, which is pretty uncommon.
i was, uh, *alternatively* intoxicated for the first time in a long time, and pretty pleased with the return journey, retained clarity, and ok, a bit of distance - but soothing absence of paranoia, generalized soft focus, balanced that the hell out. didn't feel so compelled to dance, more thought bubble than physical body. so, conversations. and i didn't fall asleep at the party after, which stretched to daybreak when i led my housemates home.
saturday felt like a sunday, in consequence, but started well, with a first draft of a new piece from nowhere, Shot in the Woods - an impossible script to be read rather than performed. afterward, i read, watched tv, mostly alone, kind of bored, kind of melancholy. sunday woke up angry, scratched out a second draft of Tragic Rainbow, very basic page designs for half the site (text and plan already in place) and called mother. mother is ok. i even put down a new take on the problematic ending of A Story for my Animus, though whether it sticks...
i dunno. thinking back, seems when i have conversations nowadays i only ever talk about the other person, i'm absent, except as a series of questions. i don't know why i do that. it's so *journalistic*.