Diary – Sunday

Trying to find where I am today – went to a do yesterday – I’m waiting, now, to pick up my own things once more – I always said I didn’t want to be a chronicler of events – but I could be – in another place.

I need to put down what is there, in any case.  I follow a few blogs where people produce story after story, week by week – or even more often than that.

They seem to have that facility – which I don’t have.

I knew someone once – someone dark, and who I ended up not liking very much, but he could do that – trot out the stories.

It was a bit like that yesterday – who could tell the best story.  Some of them I’d heard before.

Oh, there’s a better version of all this tucked away in a private place – and I’m back here again, working out what can go public, what can’t.

I must produce, in any case, I have decided – whatever I can produce, that is what I can produce, and I need to throw that down on the page like so much paint-splatter.

I did art once – a course in it – and, in life-drawing, we were told that we were now professionals, and whatever mark we put down on the paper – it had to be right – when you were a professional, you couldn’t keep on screwing up pieces of paper and throwing them in the waste basket.  You didn’t put a mark unless you knew it was going to be right.  You didn’t leave a mark standing that wasn’t right – you used your putty-rubber where necessary.

I think writing is only so-so like that.

That sort of art – there was a deliberation in it – we were not Jackson Pollocks at that point.

And writing – there is an ideal to get it oh-just-so-right.

But that is impossible, and I find it is better to throw signifiers to the page – see which stick like Pollockian paint.

[Oh – I’d read Jeanne’s post at Borderline Crossings where she says some interesting things about Mondrian.  That was in my mind when I wrote this – Pollock seems different from Mondrian – Mondrian seems so precise, Pollock not – but I’m no art expert, and I’m just wondering.]

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