Once upon a time there was a waste of time. This is going really badly. I should not have left it until the last minute. I think that people grow smug with familiarity, I certainly have. Or maybe the phrase is 'familiarity breeds contempt' but it probably is not. I have no way of making this funny. I do not have an anecdote or a whimsey. I got shot in the head, and lived. That sort of works but it is not quite right. I am worried that I sound stupid. I am not very good at getting across my ideas. I get confused about what I am trying to say and I have to go back through what I have written and re-write parts of it. More often than not I just delete the whole lot and go to bed. I am not going to do that this time. In the summer, on a muggy evening when you have been working all day and your skin is tight. There is that decision to be made about whether you should leave the window open so that you are getting fresh clean air or whether you should close it to stop the mosquitos from getting in. I just enjoy writing down what I am thinking but more often than not I am not thinking the articulate and beautiful prose that I have been dreaming of. I want you to warm to me. Please. But it is dangerous to pore over things for too long. Things can become thin. I have to write enough to cover 2.9m of wall, three metres high. Modern design in the modern world design world. That is where I want to be. There are one hundred and twenty six books in my room. I have only read eleven of them. I think I should take a year off after university just to read books. I could just stay inside, I would not need to wash anything except my hands and I could sleep on the floor. Finally, I will be able to find the time to read Fast Food Facts and Who Were The First North Americans?
I just realised/remembered why I am writing this in the middle of the night before the show. I am not a writer. I recall a conversation that took place between my co-exhibitors and I several months ago when we were discussing our work for the exhibition, "Well, I shall do some writing on the subject of passion and the imagination," I proposed. That was smug number one, smug two to 8249 came every time I put off writing this between then and about half an hour ago when I realised that my passion and my imagination had completely failed me. All I have now is my whimsey.
In the summer, I got caught in an evening storm on my way to work. It had a really intense smell, as though the lightning had shocked all of the scent out of the trees that I was walking near and it was mixing with the rain in the air so that all around smelt like freshly cut grass and batteries. View Image - 175kb. Read on.