The day I accidentaly became Walt Whitman, or James K Baxter. I'm not sure.

Just received some fantastic photos in my inbox, which I'd completely forgotten had been taken. They're proposed cover-shots channeling my supposed romantic-poet-cum-prophet-pastoral-sublimist persona, in a preindustrial bucolic Riverside setting.
Apparently I should be expending more effort mythologising myself. The best follows, for your amusement at my expense.


Photo is courtesy of the wonderful but somewhat mean Sally McIntyre (look! she's laughing at me! She's out of frame, but you can still hear it... ).

I'm going to write many poems about the weather. And my feelings. And my feelings on the weather.