Friday's list

My phone wakes me. The artist is warm beside me. First our daughter then our son make their presences felt. The artist's sister is asleep on the bright red sofa. Later I hear her voice as she speaks to her nephew and niece. I am on my back. The artist flicks the switch on the kettle. I see heavy rain through the blinds and briefly listen to the news and a song. A sock falls to the floor. A magazine glistens. After some tea I unlock the door and bid goodbye to the sister. The children meanwhile dress for school. Daffodils shine in a vase. Scraped cereal dishes sit in silence. Taps continue to gush and then are switched off. Silence. I am alone again. I re-check the news, this time online. The war zone has dropped in profile but not in reality. I switch all the lights out. I vow to make a list of my day. I deal online with processors, memory, hard drive - with speeds of up to 7200 rpm. I have also been reading a book written by the man I bumped into the other day. I enjoy his pages and feel comfortable there. It is my kind of place. I check a borrowed camera for quality again. The images I am examining are the ones taken in the park. I am reminded when looking at them that I unwittingly filmed where the other person I met that day actually lives. This I filmed before knowing he was in the neighbourhood. It is strange when something so emotionally prosperous as an image is reduced to purely technical analysis. Illegal colours. That phrase again. I first heard that getting a film approved by an old quality controller for the most famous public broadcasting company in the world. The artist comes and goes without talking of Michelangelo. I buy fish. I watch the funerals of massacred victims on TV massacred because of massacres because of massacres because of massacres. ('Without any solution there's only action and reaction,' said one figure.) I look at some new ideas by the artist. The sun is out. The rain has gone. A siren passes the window and disappears again.