The Opposite of Hallelujah

I thought I knew what I was going to write but I’ve just watched the cursor go fleeing backwards through so many opening lines. I think there was going to be a mention of Rufus Wainwright having just put him on the stereo, but then that would be the third such blog entry. Such tedium. I should at least vary it by talking about sweet devastation brought on by Jens Lekman’s Night Falls Over Kortedala. Oh Jens, what a record.

Right now I have double blog-guilt; remorse for not writing and shame for trying, after Nobel prize winner Doris Lessing’s recent espousal of fears that the internet is turning us all into filthy time-wasting blog-addicts. Don’t worry, Doris. Be comforted that my trusty old version of Word still turns up its nose in a red sneer at the expression. Stephen Fry calls them Blessays, which is much nicer but then he writes about important things in beautiful ways and I just og.

I have a cough, which I find quite exciting because it seems so old fashioned. A slightly exaggerated splutter and I imagine I could be a Victorian oik hawking up under the gaslight, bristling with TB. I don’t think my flatmate is so entranced.

This has been a bit of an odd time for me lately. A rest was certainly in order after the touring but finding something substantial to fill my life with hasn’t been that easy. Even now I’m trying to write myself to sleep. I have been to see tons of films which is a nice distraction but probably not up there with building human relationships or helping the disadvantaged in when it comes to making something of your life. I tend to avoid my flatmate in case she asks me what I’ve been up to when the answer is always ‘failing to get a job’. We have begun work on new songs so perhaps I will feel a little less useless soon.

I think Doris would want me to go to sleep now. Or at least to og off.

Carey xx