James A. Reeves
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London

Last day in London.

Mostly cloudy skies with a high near seventy degrees while C. and I sat in the National Gallery, awaiting the results of our mandatory Covid tests so we could fly home.

London

A fair chunk of our time was spent pacing and sighing.

We spent a week shivering in a damp atrium with rain dripping down the sides. We called it the Tarkovsky Box.

London

They’re making video poems about the 1990s.

It was nice to believe in the future for a little while.

London

March 5, 2022

The usual clouds, the usual forty-something degrees, and there’s a photograph of my mom on the massive screen behind us.

London

The faces of his subjects melt in the rain.

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

February 21, 2022

Few things feel as eternal as a lone bus stop in the middle of the night.

London

We tuned in to watch a livestream of airplanes struggling to land.

London. Record-breaking wind swept across England yesterday, closing bridges, train lines, and attractions.

London

They make a bee-line for me.

I keep colliding with people in the streets and shops. I just can’t pick up the rhythm here.

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