The Radiant Geometry Of ScribbleDecember 23, 2008 at 6:27 pm | Posted in memoirs, writing | 18 Comments
I have dozens of notebooks, journals, manilla folders, even old-school photocopies stapled together and given away in the mid-80’s when post-punk was its own language. I’m writing this in a notebook grabbed randomly on which the facing page is the word Tao in a circle and an arrow pointing to the old man with the hat on engaged in an elegant swirl around his cane, Sir Ian, and then through to Mr Ponderous who delineates and pontificates to the n’th degree of resolution.
It all became so self-referential. I couldn’t write a novel about one scene. It had been done Robbe-Grillet style and undone when F. appeared and declared that there is no honour in victory only in struggle. The effect is revolution. Turn over, my darling.
Picasso was an immaculate draughtsman before he was a Cubist so I practiced my grammar, recapitalising the ‘I’ and using ‘one’ as in one may assume? Explored your consent to my manipulations of the roots of language and gloried in my power.
Found at the centre Matsuo Basho, giggling over a still pond thinking about frogs and the sound they make when they land, haha, kerplunk, each moment eternal.
Sketched you in Morocco
standing naked hips tilted,
at the window in the morning
thinking about breakfast.