Nothing quite like old leather. Vermeer ciaroscuro of broken sunlight through the window and the solidity of the exposed brick.

Feeling nicely tired.

Inarticulate ramble.

I am not really sure about the direction this anonymous musing may go. Probably to the land of nowhere fast, as I really haven't maintained the rage, so to speak.

However, in my head there is a clear narrative drive behind this blog. Its clearly another food blog by a wanky inner city wannabe in search of some clarity or meaning in an otherwise device-centric existence.

Or possibly the online rants of a lonely heart.

Or even an internal dialogue with oneself conducted in the cyber-ether that is so full of meaningless stuff that it shall go unnoticed for a long time. As Julian Assange recently said, to speak and to have people listen is a privilege. I think he might be a very smart man whose ability to articulate the zeitgeist and to challenge the status quo is remarkable. If only he weren't possibly guilty of the most ubiquitous moral shortcoming of our times - an intellectual misogynist who made some poor choices.

Anyway, I just want to put it out there that iproducts are really starting to bug me. I'd prefer to have a conversation with the people around me than some device. Your latest application is my new headache, etc.

Tally ho.

Oh la la. There is a thunderstorm outside. I wanted to create fiction with a narrative arc, but I don't really think I'm capable of the sustained thought that might require. I've been reading some books, all at once, like I am actually able to digest that kind of incoming word data: here's my list!

1. Short Cuts, Raymond Carter.

In which I've realised that 'Vitamins' is actually a pseudonym for illicit substances (possibly). And, because I'm not actually American (perhaps), it took me a while to click onto what 'spades' referred to *and I may have conferred with someone real smarts*.

2. Housekeeping by Marilynne Ribinson.

This was recommended to me by the General Manager at work. I trust he has read a great deal because he is an excellent public speaker and when I think he is grouchy I remind myself that he has a bad back which causes him pain. Maybe I should apply this logic to other angry looking people?

3. Oh, shit... I was reading The Man Who Loved Children by Christina Stead. But I didn't get past this reprints epilogue by Jonathan Franzen Cohen, whom I am sure is a genius if only I could actually place him where he's meant to fit in the pantheon of contemporary American geniuses.

The end.