Monday, August 6, 2012

Sometimes i wonder the point of digging. am I digging a hole to fall into? am I playing out some brechtian drama on this berlin urban stage? a clown earthmover digging a hole that I will fill in once morning
comes...and repeat with endless repetition. or shall I awake to be in the hole with the sand up to my bucket scoop...useless and doomed.

But my mind's resistance to my subject matter is perhaps not what I should be listening to.... time to scoop fresh material into the bucket....

Materials undergoing combustion because of intimate contacts and mutually exercised resistances constitute inspiration. On the side of self, elements that issue from prior experience are stirred into action in fresh desires, impulsions and images. These proceed from the subconscious, not cold or in shapes that are identified with particulars of the past , not in chunks and lumps, but fused in the fire of internal combustion.... (Art As Experience,The Berkley Publishing Group 1934 p.65)

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