I don’t know where I’m going with it all. With either my writing or my making, I just don’t know where they are taking me, if anywhere. He would say, in his wisdom, what does it matter?Just do it. Don’t analyse so much. And he is right, but I can’t quite let go of the need for purpose, for direction and for that awful word, an outcome. In the abstract I know that working is its own goal. That it’s the doing of it that matters. And it is, but there is also a need for completion, a sense of achievement, at least that is how I feel, perhaps I need to slough it off. Knowing that it is all just puff and wind. I love the thinking about it, the ideas that come thick and fast. My mind loves that; the somersaults it does, the journeys it takes are marvellous to me. Maybe that should be enough. There is much internal satisfaction then, and ends, after all are mostly anti-climatic. It is the doing, he is right, the being here, working with my hands, writing my words, listening and reading, always that, and trying to learn, to do better, to be better. To deserve all this.