Saturday, 7 September 2013

More Moaning

If it isn't one thing, it's another. In my case, that means that it is either too much culture to consume (yes, I'll get to the problems of that verb in a moment) or the illnesses preventing me from keeping them down. The past three weeks have seen me spend as much time trying to heal as trying to work - and the two competing alienations are hidden by the unwelcome spectacle of a grubby critic limping across broken cities. 
On the positive side, the lack of work done means a surplus of concepts considered. Various shooting pains and an abscess have coloured the concepts with a shade of bitter red: there are a few incomplete blog articles that are distinctive for their venom. Perhaps I am using this illness to slip out a few ill-tempered opinions, excuse at the ready. 

There are also far too many pieces that are preoccupied with my own pain. I like to think of them as being part of my general willingness to expose the critic's interior world. I have seen enough burlesque to have fallen in love with the reveal.

The photograph at the top of the page is the closest thing that I have had to a holiday this year. It was taken somewhere near Edinburgh Waverley Station, and looks down onto Arthur's Seat. The lush foliage reminds me of foreign climes -- something in the fecundity of the plants and the reflection of sunlight recalls Greece in the late 1980s.  The apparent appearance of a large mothership in the top of the photograph is, of course, the photographer's own. 






















No comments :

Post a Comment