Tuesday, August 23, 2011


It was raining in Portsmouth, like condensation and coffee staining my shirt, and I thought, "This is meant to happen, this thirsty August maritime wet, the hailing of our winter's discontent." Poor sumering yuppies ducking for cover underneath the eaves, straining away from the soaked handrails.

I've been working two jobs and I haven't written. I'm not sure of cause and effect: I'm not writing about them because they are the two jobs, or because they are what they are,I have not been writing. Double shifts and sycophantic smiles and taking it like a man from the Man and enduring cold sexism and hot capitalism and the dewdrops of cloth drenched in sweat and grease.

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