Invisible Worms

I've just had one of those truly enjoyable work experiences. An hour and a half 'teaching' poetry to a group of adults. We discussed limericks and then poems by Blake and Larkin. Everyone had something relevant to say and we were able to have a grown up approach to whether Blake's "invisible worm" was a penis, some sperm or just a worm falling off a flower; and whether this was important.

I've been feeling physically quite low this week though. I'm probably fighting a cold. If this is a war some of the skirmishes are not being won by me. Last night, while teaching, I just wanted to teleport myself home and sleep. Maybe I'm anxious about this weekend's gig, which is in Ipswich. It is going to involve hours of driving (boo), lots of playing (hurrah) and then lots of driving again (boooo). Staying over isn't really an option. Hmmmm. Grumble, grumble.

I've been listening to plenty of Fripp soundscapes this week. Each listen reveals something new, an experience not unlike reading a good poem.


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