The old situationist in me refuses to lie down or go away. From one point of view it's all so much utopian nuttiness and adolescent wish fulfilment; from another it is incredibly inspiring.
Perhaps it's also a displacement of the religious urge - well of course it is, calling for nothing less than the complete and utter transformation of this fallen world.
Back in January I was musing over the 'saturnine' - limits, order, boundaries, duty. Now I think I'm just trying to regain some inspiration. Though while the art and the books and the ideas are important, life can still be somewhere else. "I might have thrown poor words away", wrote Yeats, "and been content to live"...
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I connect! Since when did words become so important that their flow or ebb defined the very point of my existence? And when coerced by my own sense of emptiness I write, I write a pack of meaningless and stylish lies. Disgusted by words I turn then to the cathartic dose of silence.
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