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its the early hours of the morning. 53 minutes into the first in fact. lying in bed not knowing what to do with myself. my body is tired, defeated, yet my mind wanders. wandering amongst the fragments that have become the memories of the last weeks. the whole thing has become this blurry soup of days, hours, weeks, and its only just beginning. perhaps this has something to do with my idea to write this blog.
ive kicked around on this website for many years, but ive never really wrote much on here. my dyslexic brain has always been much more interested in the endless stream of images then of the writing that this website also holds. so if you’re reading this, please excuse the sloppy nature of my delivery! ive never felt comfortable enough just write, much more so to procrastinate by pouring over the limitless streams of images that tumblr holds.
this has changed slightly with some new discoveries that i have come across. one being ‘Pond’ by Claire Louise Bennett, which i really enjoyed. claire’s writing really animates the words off of the page, the subtlety and nuance of her descriptions of simplest of life’s pleasures and pains are deeply moving and relatable. the writing has a diaristic, subjective viewpoint, yet always seems to surpass herself and grasp at much more universal truths. revealing the idiosyncrasies of one mind, that may just reflect the minds of others.
i initially picked it up because it reminded me of someone very close to me, who’s very far away atm. as i was reading it, i wasn’t sure if i was reading it through her eyes or mine, the details and bits of the prose i know she would pour over gave me endless delight. i read her some of the shorter pieces over the phone, but i think they got lost in translation. i sent the book to her 2 weeks ago, but she still hasn’t got it.
claires writing reminds me alot of the artist issy wood’s blog, which i only just discovered today! i think i prefer her writings to her paintings now. the writing is so personal, compelling even, in comparison with the cold, musty airs that emanate from her images. this may have something to do with how she plays with authorship in the paintings, wanting to disappear into the depths of auction catalogues, the bottomless well of art history, resurfacing as the object she set out depicting. a shapeshifter of sorts. equally compelling, but less honest and generous than the writings. but seeing all her writings, music and paintings as interlinked and connected is probably the point anyway.
but ive reared off track, but maybe this post answers the question of ‘why’ ive chosen to start writing a blog, leaving many, if not all the answers as to who/what/when/where is writing this post unanswered . but hopefully these other questions will be explored in due time, if i actually commit to writing these posts at all. its late. we shall see.
