At Elspeth's, about the mysterious, the haunting, the ghostly, the uncanny. J who saw herself from two rooms' height having a baby and almost dying in the process, who had also seen a recently dead cat leap over a chair and who waved back to her grandma in the upper window thogh grandma was dead. And then the burning (or was it drowning?) of the husband's lover's shoes which was an event of supreme satisfaction. And, from R, the story of the prisoner who made a large sculpture out of snot (his own) and from someone else, about those who have made sculture from their own hair. On my right book-artist / photographer H, who lives in Scotland, and N who is a painter and R, the minimal sun-ray-burning artist, and his partner S who plays piano but does something else important that I did not find out. And E, and B, who is writing the autobiography (or is it biography) of their dog, and played the piano in the other room - Chopin, I think and maybe some Rachmaninov. The house old and damp and haunted and ragged with small irrational rooms. Ghost of one black pig, whom I remember, who ate the typescript of a short story by BT, consumed it whole, then grew melancholy and died facing the wall.
Norfolk. The region time brushes then flits past.
And in less then an hour to Aldeburgh for the launch of this:
Overnight, overlooking the marshes with the sea behind us. Tomorrow C and I will have been married for thirty-nine years. New poem will go up on the front either late tomorrow or Sunday.
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