Back home, painting again. This is my first painting on the ColourFix paper, which has a slightly sanded surface and is nice and sturdy (300 gsm). This is an imaginary landscape based on a charcoal play session outcome (below).
I have seen in my recent past how heavy the burdensome personality hangs in the inner closet. Whispers of doubt, the will to fail, the voice of the fear in my father’s father in my ear. Thought brings nothing truly new – it is not the First Idea. Besides…”what we need is here”.
But the first idea was not to shape the clouds In imitation. The clouds preceded us. There was a muddy centre before we breathed. There was a myth before the myth began, Venerable and articulate and complete. From this the poem springs: that we live in a place That is not our own and, much more, not ourselves And hard it is in spite of blazoned days. From Wallace Stevens's Notes Toward A Suppreme Fiction This snippet copied from: Genuis.com
I have been devouring The Silence of Animals by John Gray, which centers on the silence before and beyond words and thought. In one chapter he discusses the life and writings of Llewelyn Powys.
Toward the end of the chapter, he describes the end of Powys’s life. His wife Alyse was a literary editor of The Dial, and seemingly a formidable woman. A year after her husband died, Alyse wrote:
Our origin is an animal one and we return to the dust - the fantasies of our brain are but thistledown in the wind. I like formality, finesse, subtlety of behaviour and thought, and at the same time I know that life is nothing at all - a fanfare, a rook's wing, gone like a boy's whistle.
What a woman!
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