Another sleepless night.
I am sitting here looking out at the sunny observed Holiday morning, trying hard not to put together the manuscript due today. My doorbell rings. It is the postman I have been expecting: he is here to re-deliver my new credit card. But after I sign my name, he produces an A4-size parcel from nowhere, and says, 'And a parcel from overseas.'
It is the Hamlyn Oils book! I have been looking forward to its arrival, and here it is in my hands, without a warning, without a fuss.
I have fallen for art technique books the way others fall for vodka. Another dose of intoxication on this sunny, evasive, negligent morning. And like most drunkards, I do not know what to do about it.
I am sitting here looking out at the sunny observed Holiday morning, trying hard not to put together the manuscript due today. My doorbell rings. It is the postman I have been expecting: he is here to re-deliver my new credit card. But after I sign my name, he produces an A4-size parcel from nowhere, and says, 'And a parcel from overseas.'
It is the Hamlyn Oils book! I have been looking forward to its arrival, and here it is in my hands, without a warning, without a fuss.
I have fallen for art technique books the way others fall for vodka. Another dose of intoxication on this sunny, evasive, negligent morning. And like most drunkards, I do not know what to do about it.
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