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My muscles ache at the thought of typing and writing another line, and yet the compelling urge to do just that overcomes any form of resistance. Its not an Orwellian, 'Why I Write' idea that urges me on. I have no interest in the narcissism nor (for the moment) the 'political purpose,' that Orwell chose over the 'betrayed purple passages, sentences without meaning, decorative adjectives and humbug generally'. As I was told yesterday its about staying alive, keeping the mind going, stopping the brain from losing grip. Its about the same as learning a new language; making the ceramic collage I promised the bare wall at the left hand side of the garden (so I could look out at colour through the kitchen window); exercising the brain as Joan Baez said in an oft posted track. I think that is why I write, I write to think. I write to try and understand. Which brings me to this blog, what is it for? Prevarication, the wordy-rapping-hood equivalent of hoovering the hall, well I guess it beats drinking myself to death.
I was born north of the border,
south of the river
and west of the sea.
How am I supposed to feel,
how am I supposed to be,
how am I supposed to know about
the things I cannot see?
I'm learning to fly - but I ain't got wings - coming down - is the hardest thing...
