It has stopped raining, for the first time in about six and a half years, it feels like. The little black cats are curled up together on a chair in Penny's shed. (Penny lives in a shed, I live in a shed, Freddie lives in a shed.) The cats sit in the sun, and one is licking the other one, when a shaft of sunlight makes them glow, so much that their black fur looks like dark brown bear's fur. And then the cat's tongue is back-lit by the sun, like a gleaming fuchsia jewel. My mind takes a photograph.
Freddie has put his sculpture into an exhibition in Soho. Nietzsche's table, is the name of his work. I think Freddie's sculpture holds its own against any art I've seen. Freddie is in a nautical mood, swapping rude jokes and winking a lot.
Penny is delighting anew in the very idea of a thesaurus, as he runs through a long poem he is writing: "I trust the moment, yet it is stolen from me to be juggled by fools," he writes, and the work has shining lines. He has a headache which feels like canyons in his head, he says. But he still has the sky in his eyes.
I spend the day working on my talk about time, the politics of time, and the moon being a commons. The moon is yours, and it is also mine, and it belongs to the Bangladeshi mother and to the dentist from Bilbao. But then, I think, is that true now? The weaponisation of space is not only another piece of murderous imperialism, but just the idea of it is a psychic wound for every mind on earth.
I played badminton yesterday, as it was too wet and cold and muddy to go for a run. And I have only played badminton once before indoors; it is one of those games I've only ever played on a beach before. Badminton has its grace, its own ballet, and most things do, to be animal is to be graceful. We could only get a court from ten to eleven pm, and Penny robustly argues that this is daft for the body-clock. Me, my body gets twitchy, like a puppy wanting a walk, if I don't do some kind of exercise, even if it is the middle of the night.
I spoke to Julie last night, and she made me hop with pleasure ? she laughs and her laughter would beg every milk bottle and buttercup to join in. Those I love the best are very different in character, said someone whose name I forget... But they share one quality: all of them make me laugh. I second that. I salute that.
Apparently, and adorably, at the Davis campus of the University of California, there is a Department of Pomology, devoted to apples. Every pip in every pippin in it, innit?
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Jay Griffiths is the author of WILD: An Elemental Journey.