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Words, phrases; might have illusion of spontaneity;
formed in cauldron of questions and doubt: measured and mixed;
delayed, diluted, discarded. The ones that work return to the surface,
impose themselves on a scattered, shattered consciousness: Chaos,
Chaos rules here, have no doubt. Those carefully crafted lines
that come out in the end, began as fragments: of dreams, half answered questions,
a chimera of the legacy of those departed. Damn the "Why's";
waste of time. You have your reasons; I have mine.
Ne'er the twain shall meet, maybe. Makes no difference.
You will believe what you will believe; feel what you feel;
a matter of priorities, what makes your life "real".
Answers do not beget answers; they generate more questions.
To what degree you choose the form is debatable;
isn't in your genes, it's those voices from experience of life,
half-remembered conversations that drive one forward.
Stasis is death; perfection, suicide.
Technique is admirable; elegant art. It's not the beginning, not where it starts.
Begins as scribbles and scrawls on the most immediately available scrap of paper.
"When the Battle is Over" was born on a serviette at the Wine Bar.
Call it creativity? It never stops; acknowledges neither time nor space.
Carry a notebook, carry a pen (usually helps); spill them out as you go.
Sit there, with a dazed look on your face; people might stare. Who cares?
The children of the night clamour and compete for their day in the sun.
You are the conduit, through whom, their tale is told; their story spun
Tagged in les bush