Almost. Almost, almost.

Sorry I freaked out on you yesterday.

I managed to amass 2000 words on the story for Booth, problem is they've spread themselves out over every corner of the room. And over two boroughs. I am at the very height of disorganization with this thing. I need another full day of work on it to make it readable, forget about good.

I've been at work for hours, and I've neglected to do anything, really.

FAWM starts tomorrow, and I do have a goal of posting something on the first day. Having to work all day tomorrow, I'm not sure how that's going to happen. I'm obsessively checking the forums, being as unproductive as I've been at any point.

Must go home and look for my magic wand.

*****

John Martyn died a couple of days ago.

It made me think of M., and days spent lounging and listening to music in Woodford Green. M. was doing some work with Beverly at the time; she had more sad stories to tell about her time with John than happy, it seemed.

M. and I, in bathrobes, watched video of a BBC documentary on John which interspersed older concert footage with current footage of him in a pub somewhere in Scotland. John was fumbling around like Santa Claus on his day off, red and hypertensive, clearly off his face. He was having a good time joshing around, but there was something slightly uncomfortable in the watching.

The concert footage, though, was priceless. He managed to make an electric guitar sing, as easy and as delicately as an acoustic. No small feat.

RIP,
j.