Friday, July 18, 2008
'Big Exit' by the fantastic, incredible PJ Harvey
Sinking into summer. And as I promised myself, listening more than talking, hence few words on here.
I'm starting to write stories without sex in them. Or, I should say, where the sex sinks back and lets other elements of the story come forward. It's frightening. Feels like I'm starting all over again, back at square one. Groping around in the dark. Hauling out all the old poems and trying to work out if they're okay or complete gibberish. Unable to tell if there's any merit or point in what I've written or am planning to write. Waiting for something to rise up out of the bare ground and start moving. Ready to follow it.
At the moment, writing feels like standing at the bottom of a very high mountain. The summit is covered in clouds, but that's even a joke, because I suspect there is no summit. It's all about the endless climb.
And I'm hanging around here at the base camp, listening to other people's stories and making preparations for a long trip.