my mind is
a big hunk of irrevocable nothing which touch and
taste and smell and hearing and sight keep hitting and
chipping with sharp fatal tools
in an agony of sensual chisels i perform squirms of
chrome and execute strides of cobalt
nevertheless i
feel that i cleverly am being altered that i slightly am
becoming something a little different, in fact
myself
Hereupon helpless i utter lilac shrieks and scarlet
bellowings.
E.E.Cummings
This is more of a lilac shriek than a scarlet bellowing. I’ve been reading George Orwell’s essays ‘Why I write’ and looking at other artist's dilemmas and found some significance for myself there. However this does not make me feel particularly comfortable with the direction that this will give to my blurb particularly when unlike Orwell writing in hindsight, I am still somewhere in my ‘underwent poverty and a sense of failure ‘phase. Or perhaps I need to acknowledge publicly that this is my case. And also the case of others.
