It can be intensely moving to find notes in the margins of a book, or a train ticket from some long forgotten trip tucked between the pages: re-remembering and re-imagining the time and place in which it was read – the mood, the time of day- those things become part of the book itself.
Weather and memory have got into this latest book form. Inside is a prose poem which explores a heat wave and all its hard fixed colours. Commas and full stops are used rather grudgingly because they puncture language and tended to fix it hard; like a landscape under heat. Outside, the binding is dry and parched, like the earth before a downpour.
The book has been handwritten and aspires to be smudgy and mutable like rain: in the effort to escape the heat, the letters have unlearnt their clean manners, and grammar is forgotten in the anticipation of the complication of dampness, and for things being washed and blown into each other..