I’m self-isolating here all on my own. It could be a lot worse.   I’m in Paris. And can leave twice a day for bread, eggs, silence, architecture and a chat with a statue. Believe me, Paris is even more beautiful without Parisians.   And I have things to keep me going. I still have work. Then there’s a good cello, a decent library and the laundry. Bit by bit, they all help keep me off the gin and out of hospital.   The odd social post helps, too. Each day George Tannenbaum reminds me in a different way that…

A clear mind takes a clear life.   Clear of the empty carcasses of the stuff of life. Its sustenance, maintenance, fancies, fripperies and last-minute wants.   Clear of spent boxes, empty tubes. Empty skins, weeks ago crafted by nature and for now we longer care. The cast-away, empty-bellied mothers of meals. The cheese-turned-something the fridge holds and the memory no longer does. The packet that just yesterday satisfied one last plain chocolate, caramel-filled morsel of desire.   Clear of the death that blots the sparkle of living. The dust, the fluff, the withered nail, the layers of cells that…

While we sit and write, let’s remember the one who sits and sells.   Never shifting, just tapping. Eyes up, eyes down. Up-belt, down-belt. Four euros twenty. Eighteen dollars ten. Box, bottle, box, bargain-box, carton, special offer. Pack of six. Treat for just one.   Tap-tap. Thank you, and you.   The server of all. The short, the high and the mighty. Strutters, shufflers and soul-seekers. The swearers, the thinkers, the thankers and the mindless drifters. The charming, the rough, the unruly. The sprightly, the clearly sick and the maybe, maybe, sick-to-be.   Tap-tap. Take care.   The saver of…

THINGS TO DO TODAY.   First, stand still and listen. No, it’s not squeaky brakes you hear outside. It’s the first sparrows of spring. Walk past an apartment block, look up at a second-floor window and shout I love you. If you’re a loudmouth, try the fourth. For the first time, nobody will think you’re weird. Look up at the sky, and love that it’s not streaked with vapour-trails like track-and-change on copy. Look at leaves swinging to a beat. Someone, somewhere, is making music. Buy three croissants, one for your morale, one for the lady at the till and…