Hello. I'm Seoirse (it's one of those mad Irish names with too many vowels).
It's four in the morning, early November. I'm writing this now... I don't know why. I like the small internet, I like writing. They are two of my favourite things. Maybe put them together. Why now though, after all this time?
It's raining here in Sussex, southern England. I'm cocooned in my room, sleepless for hours, dim light, surrounded by books, dark yellow walls. New music by Kali Malone and Drew McDowall.
I'm 70 years old and I keep falling in love. With things and the people who make them. In this notebook I'll write about that. About them.
It doesn't matter if nobody reads it. My notes will be like those Buddhist prayer flags, fluttering in the breeze.
Falling.
"Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf / How the heart feels a languid grief" (from Autumn Song by D. G. Rossetti). Actually I do know'st not. I love Rossetti, words and pictures, but I don't feel sad about time passing.
"Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion." (from The Windhover by G. M. Hopkins). Transcendence through submission. I know'st something of that.
"Don’t mind me. Don’t take any notice of me. I do not exist." (from All That Fall by S. Beckett). Now we're in business.
So that's a start.