I have a deep, inset love for two distinct concepts this month -- autumn, and the East Coast of the USA. I label them 'concepts', ever aware of the disconnection between the romantic musings between my cold ears, and the reality 3,000 miles across the pond. I've always loved North America, from that first glance of the jagged East Coast from an aeroplane window in 1999, and every year, around this time, an ache develops for New York, large and painful enough to send me to thoughts of emigrating. Cool crisp air, enough to numb noses and fingers under woollen gloves; bright, distant sunlight; dusty, grey pavements thick with evidence of life... these things inspire something creative inside. It's probably a case of the grass being greener, of unreality, romanticism to the extreme... but today as I lounge on a cream sofa listening to The Postal Service, I'd rather be there than here...
I have a deep, inset love for two distinct concepts this month -- autumn, and the East Coast of the USA. I label them 'concepts', ever aware of the disconnection between the romantic musings between my cold ears, and the reality 3,000 miles across the pond. I've always loved North America, from that first glance of the jagged East Coast from an aeroplane window in 1999, and every year, around this time, an ache develops for New York, large and painful enough to send me to thoughts of emigrating. Cool crisp air, enough to numb noses and fingers under woollen gloves; bright, distant sunlight; dusty, grey pavements thick with evidence of life... these things inspire something creative inside. It's probably a case of the grass being greener, of unreality, romanticism to the extreme... but today as I lounge on a cream sofa listening to The Postal Service, I'd rather be there than here...
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