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If it was possible to really articulate the utter insanity of some of the things we have to do and/or are faced with then I am sure it has been done by someone more qualified than me. There are days when I think that life is totally mad.
Am about to travel back. I don't mean back, as in time, but back to the location I travelled from just a few days ago. Back and forth, it offers many possibilities and I am collecting hundreds of them each time.
Travelling through London now has become a terrible chore. The sheer weight of people that flock towards you is gruesome. Why are they always going in the opposite direction or is that just an illusion?
However, that is not what I was planning to tell here.
Is it through comparison that we shrivel at times, inhibiting our progress, because we feel it might not measure up?
One of my favourite books of the moment is Iris Murdoch's 'The Black Prince'.
A few years ago one of the areas I started to explore was the reduction of the photograph. Until it almost didn't exist, of course it might be more successful to not take any but that didn't seem to be the point, or the point was lost. And it wasn't just to do with erasure. The lasting resonance of colour and sound are what interested me.
Today I found a bright white bri-nylon shirt, size 15 and a half, still in its packaging. It's been lying there sealed in that cellophane wrapper for probably bang on 50 years, the cuffs untouched by human hands after they were clipped to the cardboard body around which the shirt was folded. I wonder who bought it and why it was never worn (having experienced wearing a nylon shirt to school it's not really that much of a mystery) nor given to, say, a jumble sale 49 years ago? Since regretting not getting the crimplene housecoat earlier this year I was not going to let the shirt get away and paid my money - a pound.
