If the garden is the body, and the attic is the mind, and the rest of the house the soul, as Jung says, then I neglect my heart and body, and dwell too often here. An untidy space, cluttered with half-opened boxes, half-finished works, and too many books, guitars, albums. With memerobilia, and photographs; favourites stowed away in folders while obscure relatives gaze at me from within broken frames. I looked at my bookcase the other night, and realised as I scanned the too-familiar spines that I had read every book there, but I could only remember a handful. Somehow, I am never able to tidy up here. I guess that’s what I have to do, inside and out. Though even then the boxes will remain, in the cupboards under the eaves, bulging with memories, but vulnerable to damp. The rain is falling now, and it drips through a broken pane. The I Ching is waiting, but I’m poor, it’s the end of the month, and I haven’t even a coin to toss. The rainfall is getting heavier. This head of mine is leaking.