They are not good drawings but I need to see them, separate from myself. And it isn’t really about whether they are good or not. This isn’t a drawing exercise but a way of capturing, of recording what I saw. I need to get over this restrictive judgement, it gets in the way of my looking. So I shall keep going until I come through to the other side of ego-less-ness.
I had to pee in the wilderness the other day and I found another piece of blue and white. I think it is old, perhaps 1920s at the most. The clay is think, and the blue and white stripe is painted and thick. It give me joy to find such things.
There was a butterfly on one of the picture frames in my bedroom. He thought it was a Painted Lady. He helped it outside and we watched it fly off. And then yesterday morning I found a grasshopper on the kitchen floor. We are three floors up – so lord alone knows how he got up there. He was an almost white-green. And then this morning as I cleaned (in the still dark) a moth fluttered at the window. That membrane between the outer and the inner is a fine one.
I think I have remembered what he was saying as I passed them. They were arm in arm, young and intense. He was talking, she listening. I don’t want to hear what’s been going on,’ he said.
