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.
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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