Writing with the summer. Writing under summer. Under summer’s influence.
Summer, idling in our work. Letting itself be pressed like flowers into our summer work. Summer, lying down on summer in our philosophical work.
And planning great works – long works. Several summers long works. Across the summer. Across this summer, and the next. Opening ourselves not just to this summer, but the next one. To all summers.
And, in the evening, drinking summer cider and honey beers with our music friends.
And for the first time actually sitting around a table with our music friends in a beer garden.
After a day of righteous work. After a day of writing.
And drunk with summer. Summer-drunk. Summer-staggering.
In a summer trance, up above the Ouseburn Valley. Looking into the trees.
And our work was of the summer just as cider is of the summer.
And evenings drunk. Evenings – nights – knowing the happiness of drinking. Through to the early hours.
And cycling home. Cycling across town. From the Ouseburn Valley, and down the Tyne.
We were substantial people, after all. Flesh and blood, after all. Ghosts no longer. We were anchored on the earth, after all.
Friends – did we have friends? Were we friends with each other? Our music friends: were they real?
Work in Progress 