Wintertime 

"Just a dash of Vodka" I say "into the batter" " it will make your pancakes zingy". The morning light in the winter countryside is of a dull hue. A terrible mist has hung over us for three days. It affects the brain, dead in the night, struggling to find inspiration.

The tangerines are well represented in the dark blue bowl. " Whats going on with those Canadian Queens on Netflix?" " An exaggeration of the female principle" he answers and I guess he is right. They are not really anything to do with my experience of been a woman. I feel more like a man who happens to have vagina.

The seascape beckons and so does my score. De profundis: Its going well despite having the mother fucker of a cold, not Covid. "Haven't you noticed how new opera has become more and more obsessed with spectacle" he says. And again he is right, leaving space for the imagination is too daring. All the cracks must be filled in. But it is the cracks that allow the inspiration to shine through as Leonard Cohen would say.

The little birds chirp in the yellow flowering bush outside. Its cheery to hear their song in this winter dullness when all is asleep except for the virus which rampages. I will compose, then walk , then relax with a glass of wine by the fire.

The Old Table

To be honest I never felt I would reach this moment, when I would realise that I was older, that the consolation of homemade muffins and artichoke soup would be so powerful. Reminding me of trips in our youth to Canada. 

" Do you want to climb the rocky road? Do you want to know my fantasy? But if you follow me , I'll take the o'er the mountains to the sea and you'll know" Analysis: 2019. Self.

https://vimeo.com/418473750

One winter his dad tried to distill maple syrup in the kitchen. All the wall paper peeled off. But it is these small acts that begin to assume greater meaning when one has left the city for the rural dream. Now halcyon days involve walking over the grape seed fields in summer with the calm high tide at Stiffkey marshes gleaming over a fantasy land.

I sweep the old table with a rather clever brush and tray to catch the crumbs. So many crumbs were gathered by my mother, the previous owner. When I took possession the brush was encased with greasy black grime like the strings on Nelson's lower deck. But it washed up nicely and seems now brand new. The old table is not so easy to clean up. It got stained, but perhaps that is ok. The history of our lives together are imprinted on it and it smartens up well with a lovely table cloth. It also survived a Christmas dinner when I tipped it in a rage, when my brother in law said " You can't have a career and a baby." We didn't talk afterwards for 6 months but we are now the best of friends. The old table is sturdy and stylish, bought from Habitat over 30 years ago. It is to late to replace it.

https://composersedition.com/susannah-self-analysis/

https://vimeo.com/383265308