I can't tell stories; maybe that's why i like them so much.

I can't think in narratives very well - like, i think i can follow them, but i am easily distracted - preoccupied with shards and details and incidents rather then * stories * as such. The moment not the arc. I suppose any sequence is a narrative, but, equally, we all know a narrative is not necessarily a story, right?

I do collect sounds and textures - timbre is the word i probably should use but never quite have the bottle to without qualifying it with doubts and word salad - and i faff with them, splice them, process them. try to arrange them in pleasing sequences; sequences that please me, at least.

How much use such things might be during these strange, agitated, vexing, worrying, curiously dilated times, i really don't know. I find it helpful to make them, i think - they're a kind of distraction, a more-or-less spurious focus for my attention. Would they cover my social obligations or rent when retreating to the Florentine countryside? My guess is no, not really.

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All the sounds and their respective sources that make up if not gold well still then something were collected this year, in the last month or so for the most part. Some have been treated heavily with filters and effects, transformed into something like an abstraction; some are presented as is. They're quite long, partly because i can at times convince myself to let things run and partly because for many of us there's nowhere we're supposed to be but * here * right now.

Whilst upstairs have been symptomatic - untested - for over a week, we're all well, so far; i hope you & yours are too.

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For Peggy and, i assume, at least nine others.

jks 30/03/20