AUTUMN ALMANAC on mute on the big screen, IN TENEBRIS RATIONE ORGANI by Michael Bonaventure playing over the top, while I wrestle with a third draft (which is actually a first full draft) of a tv show concept document, while occasionally standing up to wipe things off the three whiteboards hanging in front of me. I’m sure things are happening on the internet, but I’m out.
(That said, I would be curious to see what’s being said about Simon Reynolds’ new piece in which he coins the curséd meme “conceptronica.” I mean, it’s not the worst stretch to surround a space I’ve ever seen. Anyone remember “The Scene That Celebrates Itself”?)
Autumn’s getting colder, and the rain is taking on that icy edge. In fact, we were hit by serious hailstones the other night. So I’ve decided to grow my beard to epic proportions and not show steel to it until spring.
Inbox: 12. Weight gain this year: I’m guessing I put on at least ten pounds, rooting my arse in this chair to write and produce two episodes of television. I walked five miles yesterday —
— when you jog past me in central London at rush hour and your body isn’t as wide as my last shit then son it’s okay to start walking normally —
— so goodbye, bread, I will miss you.