I have had nothing interesting to say for months, which is why I've been hidden away. The train this morning made an alarming clunk coming into Central. I am supposed to go shopping tonight and have rid myself of a heavy a load to carry. Just yesterday - yes, much late because this is Australia - I actually found two decent poems in The New Yorker, one by Adonis and one by Rae Armantrout. I am suspecting that Mark Young is getting all my mail and I'm getting someone else's bills, with my name on them. People kept bumping into me near the turnstyles, like planets, like that poem I once wrote. I was enjoying the Sydney Film Festival until I got a sore back from the bad seating and, thus, am not a fan of the State Theatre because of that, lovely art deco palace that it is. I am coming to the conclusion that we in Sydney must be some of the rudest people in the world, let alone the least curious. My BPPV is backing off but they say I may just look up again, in an instant, and it's all down the dizzy way again. I have enough difficulty with keeping track in the world so I don't have the need to wear machines in my ear. The crows seem to have gone from the street, we have the magpies back and the little birds. I was standing next to an airconditioning vent yesterday in RPA and it was making a wonderful thick swirly off-rhythm and I wished I had a recorder to get it down. I am working on some projects and find I have to walk away from a lot of work I did recently because it just would not 'go'. I deal with a lot of angst in my job. Speaking of angst, Mads Mikkelson must be one of my current favourite actors. I was reading Ange Mlinko's Starred Wire on the train this morning, first opportunity, and it's blowing my head off, and you all must read it, though undoubtedly you all have. I wish people would stop hosing their own personal concrete. The air is thick with winter sunshine hanging off fume.