Post 31 of 92

4:50pm.  Every day I think about writing, compose stuff in my head, and every day I don't.  So be it.

All in all however, not too bad here.  I've been drawing a lot.  A lot.  Have had a few things on the go.  Nothing nicer than to wake up in the morning and look forward to working on something.  Just about the nicest feeling there is.  Spent weeks on a drawing, overworked it, ruined it, cut it in thirds as thought I could kind of make do with part of it.  Natalia, one of the cats, played with it, walked on it and creased it.  Just as well.  When something is stuffed it's stuffed and just because there might be thirty hours work in it, is no justification for keeping it.  If it's shite, it's shite.

Drawing is a solid ground of joy.  There is something undeniably seductive about making something which wasn't there before.  It's a bloody miracle.  Every moment of every day, I realise, is the same creative process; a word spoken, a thought thought, a meal made, steps taken, always a movement from the past to the future that is never anything but right here, yet creating something tangible from the mind, a kind of testament to the past and future coalescing in a visual record of the infinite now....

Gad, I know what I want to say but I can't say it.  The more I try to pin it down the more elusive it gets.  Suffice to say, it's a gift that I am so grateful to make use of.

And now it's time to take a walk.  5:05pm