Whatever you possess possesses you in return. The more I destroy, the heavier the few things I own become. I've lost the key to immediate experience, to spontaneous creativity. Again young man, reinvent revolt. Something intensely violent and full of intention must be designed.Two years ago, at exactly this time, I began designing the plans to my next seven months living in the woods in London which became the most enriched experience of my life. Nobody have I found out of all the writers, artists, dramatists, musicians have been able to convey the sense of absolute feeling of lost when suddenly only dead time forms and bites at your ankles, trapping you in place. Nowhere have we been told what to do outside of the fucking rat race, I'll eat the rats if needbe, just give me another track, no no damn the track, damn the man, damn the heart. Yet, returning home always does this to me, instills the sense of powerlessness and insane advice of people that do not know the centre of the soil which feeds your roots.Patience, patience. The object created is less important than the process which gives rise to it, the act of creating. Again, I will find new ways of expression, the tool will always become blunt after a while with excessive usage. I would like to learn an instrument again, one born from wanderers. To draw, paint, photograph, write stories in another tongue..I hope that my french and then, eventually, spanish, will be up to this. I leave for france tomorrow. Kept putting it off, lathing it up, burning it's plans, concrete over the entrance to the heart, burying myself in dead time, dead motions, dead spirit. As I have grown in the last five months, I have grown away from myself. Simon told me, my dear younger brother, on returning - 'J, you haven't changed at all in this time' and to it, my breath felt like acid, I couldn't speak or communicate for days. But what I know is sacrafice is the archaic form of exchange. It is a magical exchange, unquantified, irrational and for it, I must give everything until all these skins that aren't mine, that have developed over the past five months of voyage, fall away once again. What else can I possibly do?
See original: Survival sickness,
