Think about what you know. Think about what you want to say. Think about the reception of others. Think about whether you can disguise these thoughts as your own. Think about the difference between intrigue and interest. Think about the necessary exponential that lies somewhere, plotted on a graph in smudged ink, between concept and execution.
I can think of nothing today, endowed by last night’s inebriation. Wanting here to say something profound, to relate to the review I have just read of an old Henri Chopin boxset, within it ideas of cut-up, concrete poetry, acousmatic, sound art and high weirdness. Also want to talk about the choice to abandon a book. My battered copy of Tim Robinson’s Stones of Aran is not right at the moment, need stories, we all need stories. I related my plot to friends over beers last night, the plot of my short story which has rapidly and realistically been downgraded through novel and novellas statuses in order to enforce a sense of economy. This done not to save time, but for purposes of clarity and the possibility to achieve.
Last night was a hoot, firstly out towards Treptower Park in the faded halflight to a re-used industrial unit, covered in tonnes of imported sand and lit beneath one hundred hanging electric bulbs. There we sat on pontoons with our visitor from England and photographed spiders whose webs dipped into the river.
Back into Kreuzberg, firstly near the bridge and into a bar built from thin beige bricks, the tables and occupants sprawling outside amongst yucca and bicycles. Then we walked a little further, shadowed by the elevated rails of the U-Bahn, and ended in the upside-down bar, chairs superglued to the ceiling, talking about urbanites and recycling and the drift of the artistic.
Now I am a little lost, many things to do, various time-frames in which to do them. Really, given the sun outside and my general feeling, I just want to go out to the lakes in the west and sleep.