Reading someone's diary; that little journal stashed beneath the mattress or secreted away in a hidden drawer, is so often accompanied by that dizzy little fish-hook tug of excitement in the gut.
Reading a blog can often seem more like a secondary school comprehension task. Censored as it is for the public eye a blog requires no guilty fumblings in the dark crannies of the authors private quarters; readily published for all to see there is no stolen moment, left alone, in which to snatch brief morsels of thought from private pages. More's the shame.
Thought for yesterday...
I was walking up a hill in Brighton last night listening to an Anglo-Welsh poem about having sex with a mountain. It occurred to me how surreal some pretty mundane things can sound when you write them down. Now I have.
Right now...
There are people in the corridor outside recycling bottles. Its 1-bloody-am on a Sunday morning.
Something important...
I was sitting at a table eating a hasty dinner at 11pm before returning to my studio and thought... In the last three days I have found my drive once again, I knew it just needed a little time to come to terms with the upheval and now all I need is my work, food and sleep are physical neccesities that facilitate creation. How can people up in the morning with something like this to drag them? I admire their blind tenacity.
Tata.
Reading a blog can often seem more like a secondary school comprehension task. Censored as it is for the public eye a blog requires no guilty fumblings in the dark crannies of the authors private quarters; readily published for all to see there is no stolen moment, left alone, in which to snatch brief morsels of thought from private pages. More's the shame.
Thought for yesterday...
I was walking up a hill in Brighton last night listening to an Anglo-Welsh poem about having sex with a mountain. It occurred to me how surreal some pretty mundane things can sound when you write them down. Now I have.
Right now...
There are people in the corridor outside recycling bottles. Its 1-bloody-am on a Sunday morning.
Something important...
I was sitting at a table eating a hasty dinner at 11pm before returning to my studio and thought... In the last three days I have found my drive once again, I knew it just needed a little time to come to terms with the upheval and now all I need is my work, food and sleep are physical neccesities that facilitate creation. How can people up in the morning with something like this to drag them? I admire their blind tenacity.
Tata.
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