I'd only want to make a film if it was in French, but I don't speak French.

My restless fingers type these mystery words, as I stare at a portrait of Franz Marc and think about the film Jules et Jim, and my shadowy life. June days in England feel more like dreary March days, I’d rent a little house by the Rhine too if I could tolerate isolation. That’s always been so attractive to me, that idea of escapism -of living in the wild, but loneliness would get me in the end…So I walk around Norwich city, factory people knock me down, yet somehow it’s a celebration of this sublime life. Sometimes I’d like to paste all these memories into a sketchbook, and store it in a little heart box under my bed to glance through every so often…

So here we are. Neil Young on the stereo. Faulkner swimming in my head. I got that bible story too on my mind tonight, the one where Jesus talks to a woman by a well. It’s the simplicity that gets me every time. Still I doubt I’ll go to church tomorrow if that’s all the same. This time last year I spent a lot of my days walking aimlessly around the German countryside picking sunflowers and driving an old Volvo car through rectangle farm towns. I wasn’t happy then, feeling like I was living life inside a gentle snow globe I couldn’t break out of. As for now I look outside my window and see there are houses with real people living in them, streets full of possibilities and adventures. I draw the curtains tonight, and put something into that little heart box for reflection when I’d understand things better.

i was on a Paris train

I write this at work as the drilling telephone drums into my beating ears. I'm slowly recovering from our golden time in Paris - alright, I know the very word is full of cliches - but Paris has something that keeps my heart beating one step faster. Staying in my favorite hotel in the world, sitting by the Seine drinking wine with friends, little patisseries....
Stop. I tell myself it's not about a list of these moments, but the background I'd like to chip at and try to make sense of. It's a city capable of beautiful and grotesque - all thrown together into some giant sunshine blender.

It's good to just jump on the eurostar train, try to hide from the tourists(wearing "PARIS" on their t shirts, the notre damn on their baseball caps!)....But to run away from England and it's bubbling gossip to someplace where for a few days it all just seemed so natural and free.
It's all blurry as I stare at the computer screen, somewhat exhausted and optimistic from the last few days that seemed like a old fashioned black and white melodrama....

I walk around this big hall office, look out at the windows at the countryside and the calm horses strolling around - anything to avoid doing work. Still, Paris spins like a colorful merry-go-round in my head, and that's the way I like it....