Wednesday, 9 September 2009
A day at home to turn around and this morning C and I on to Berlin, via Amsterdam. Fourth or fifth time in Berlin? I'll be curious to see how this two-part city, which struck me as physically unhealed (the centre was hard to locate, though nominally Alexanderplatz I suppose), has glued itself more firmly together.
The festival is long and grand and international and in German. I don't speak German. Chose Latin at my suburban state grammar school as the alternative because of ambitions (less mine than my parents') regarding medicine. Sorry I dropped Latin before O Level. Sorry I didn't do German at all. In fact sorry that my French isn't better.
That's three 'sorry's. Is that enough? Not sorry I dropped the idea of medicine, or it dropped me. Another life I'll learn at least five languages properly and refine my bedside manner.
H and R here. Their house hunting done, it seems. Grey, overcast outside. Hardly a whisper of a breeze. So much work knocking at the front door. Some of it will come with me, as it always does.
However, did finish five football poems (for children? supposedly) and a nine-part poem on Rosehill Theatre. The tone and technique are related to the Palladio poem in The Burning of the Books. It has been a smoking brain weekend. I'll put the little football poems up/ The Rosehill one may follow.
I hear we are out of the recession. I'll take an extra ten quid to Berlin and live it up.