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.