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Saturday, 29 July 2006
Intermittant.
The mechanics of forced writing pull slowly, sorry, sorry and sorry although only apologetic to myself; I have expired reminders and goodwill. I am always nearly leaving.
So you find an abandoned lifeboat, and posit reasons - laziness stretched out at the top. However, there is more, and we all are always nearly leaving.
The house above has seen its walls straightened and coloured, dynamic blueprints, cups of tea thrown across a ragged carpet and the bleach bleach bleach smell of newness.
In here there is nothing but boxes. Out there, early heat.
The yard is fat with colour, reminding me that I need to photograph the plants. I should like to make some money from these photographs, I should like to make to some money at some point of my life. I am tiring already.
Kafka spurs me though, Blanchot just behind, screaming and whispering about the process of reading. For me, that damn process takes too long and just won't stop.
Visit elsewhere.
12:07 Posted in Confessional | Permalink | Comments (0) | Email this