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Thursday, 01 June 2006
Cry river.
The monotone back-lanes emit an openness, the pockmarks of cobbles are open to the day. Dry rivers of brick-dust trickle downhill, the gentle wind stirring silt into breaks in the road's surface.
Trying to determine the passage of the next few hours, trying to instigate a positive response to what as being an underwhelming week. The lack of writing lies at the foot of a hill; it is a peak rescinded.
What cost these motivations? The driving of oneself to produce, to recognise, to be recognised? At which point does that callous upon artistic pursuit - integrity - begin to burr and harden? Surrounded by invisible targets and floating deadlines, we become disorientated.
Creating the ecstasy of completed work is a must. The means, not the ends, qualify and assist and help to draw the clouds back from themselves and shed light on the processes of living, at which point art and the day become infused like an aspirin in water.
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