One of those fine afternoons when you wander into a dusty bookstore in an unfamiliar city.
London. After six weeks here, I still find myself stopping in the street, stunned by how low the clouds hang on this island.
We spent a week shivering in a damp atrium with rain dripping down the sides. We called it the Tarkovsky Box.
You can’t climb on Stonehenge anymore, but you can walk around it under the eye of a tour guide and two uniformed guards.
It was nice to believe in the future for a little while.
Yesterday I saw the birthplace of William Blake, now a strip of concrete between an Indian restaurant and an expensive handbag store.
The usual clouds, the usual forty-something degrees, and there’s a photograph of my mom on the massive screen behind us.
London. A sunny Wednesday morning with highs in the 50s, the sun goes down at 5:30pm, and I’m recovering from an exhibition of Francis Bacon’s animal paintings.
London. Another day of clouds and drizzle, and somewhere off to the left, I can hear Georges Perec: “Question your teaspoons.”
Few things feel as eternal as a lone bus stop in the middle of the night.
London. Record-breaking wind swept across England yesterday, closing bridges, train lines, and attractions.
London. A storm named Eunice is churning over the Celtic Sea, and the news is advertising it heavily.
I keep colliding with people in the streets and shops. I just can’t pick up the rhythm here.
I spent six hours looking down at the Atlantic, hunting for the distant lights of boats.
The snow is melting quickly, leaving behind a scene like the bleary-eyed aftermath of a really good party.
