Thom cancelled.

On impulse, I took a train to London to see Rothko. I visit his room at the Tate twice yearly and have plans to visit the chapel in Houston next year. He is my only concession to 20th century art. In fact, aside from the phenomenologists, he is my only concession to anything at all abstact. And yet, in accepting Karen's unconvincing apology I was left with time to ponder on the nuances in her voice. I have chronicled how we tried and failed to renew our relationship. Certainly, I have yearned for her and yet, in imagining all kinds of temporary lovers, I have thrown every obstacle in our way. So why have I contrived this jealousy? Is it so hard to accept that I prefer my life as, oh that silly phrase, a single man.

I'm running out of O.

Sliding out of East Croydon, I called K, the line was dead. There is no O in London anymore, no, hasn't been since the 1890's, and so, already itchy, the awareness of arrival into a place without it sent my craving on a spiral. I walked swiftly to the Tate, hoping Rothko would restore some balance, only to find his room had been temporarily dismantled. And so, furious, I stormed to the box office where, Maxim, the Polish, explained the reason for this and that, luckily, there were many other paintings to see. Other paintings? What do you think I am, other paintings? Do you think I will look at anything that is put in front of me? I am here for Rothko!!! For Rothko!!! After that, London was not pretty for me. I spent the afternoon walking along residential roads in Chelsea and Kensington, imagining a letter to the Guardian, and lopping the heads of any wanton poppy plants.