How does anyone begin – anything? I have hit a wall of some resistance, and somehow I have to find a gate through, or a stile to climb it, or perhaps a big mallet to crush it. I want to make , and I have a few ideas that meander across my consciousness, but everytime I cast my line to hook one, the line just sort of lies there and the bait isn’t attractive enough. The need nags, creating those ripples that endlessly reverberate , someone is knocking at the door but when I open it no-ones there.
In the absence of focus I try to read – always in the past reading has been a refuge to retreat to, always offering sustenance, growth, and reassurance. Today and for some previous I have picked up the same book and felt dim, unable to follow the diversions of Daniel Dennet’s arguments. I can’t follow him at all; he has turned up to take me for a walk and I am legless. I turn to a novel instead, hoping for distraction , it is Artist of the Floating World. Kazuo Ishiguro is right for me – I have read this before and the sparseness of his writing mirrors my mood, the themes of malleability of memory and the pain of ageing is strangely satisfying. Nothing happens, and yet something changes.
“If on a sunny day you climb the steep path leading up from the little wooden bridge still referred to around here as ‘the Bridge of Hesitation’, you will not have to walk far before the roof of my house becomes visible between the tops of two gingko trees.”
It is fiction then, that is able to steer me quietly to somewhere where I can find some ease. The philosophy of mind will wait, and so must I . I must remember to put my tools down sometimes and renew. Renew.