This from my brother M:
Way busy in work putting in railway sleepers on the upright to hold a bank up after we cut a track thru a field. A hundred and thirty so far and a shit loada concrete. Young fella owns the propert, 26 years of age. Grandad left 25 mill to him. He gets up, smokes a rolly, has a coffee, plans his games room, clears the ice off his range rover by remote from his back door, and goes back in. o yeah, then the dog comes out for a shit next to my pick up. He stayed in for a year when he first got it and smoked weed. Brains gone a bit now I reckon, nice enough lad, but fuck me. Been cold here. Fingers like digits of a monkey at the mo. Smell naught but creosote from sleepers. Chainsaw has made me deaf and blind from the shit in them. Just moanin bra, just moanin.
This from Kate:
I have promised myself bed by 12.30 so I’m on the clock. Things are going well here though it feels like eternal night – we spend the light hours and much more in the studio working.. it must be equinox soon from what I can see through the curtains. The studio is painted all black, with ceiling arches so that some places on stage you hear yourself in echo (discouraging when ‘acting’). I am half expecting bats. The group in good spirits.For some reason in the last days I am remembering that trucker [in Now Not Moving at 1001 Nights Cast] often – the one you described scratching his family on a napkin in the middle of the forest. Something about being on the road and really not sure that any other recent life is actually current or existent. And trying to rebuild it in your imagination sort of burns it out, or flattens it into stick figures…
Ha! my father just Skyped from the garden in New Zealand! He held the computer up so I could hear a blackbird singing in sun.