I just fed my man, and he went off into the lounge to watch the telly. Here I slave in the kitchen all day, and I don’t even get a thank you. He’s sleeping on the couch tonight, that’ll teach him to appreciate things properly.
Seriously, though, I feel like my ears are bleeding because I’ve been reading about maths all day. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not bad at maths, but I certainly am not very interested in it. And I certainly don’t want it in my art.
Which is a stupid saying, of course, because maths is often a factor in art. Geometry, at the very least. Spatial factors. Strengths and dependencies. Probabilities. Oh yeah, there’s maths in art, but I just prefer it to not be so formulaic as to stare me in the face with its coefficients and values. But that’s what The Project feels like at the moment. Change a number, get this result. Understand how that formula applies to this effect.
I’m reminded of William Blake, and an image he had in one of his book, of God sitting with a drafting compass. I feel like that when I look at what I’ve done today. Maybe the Newtonian idea of the clockwork universe isn’t quite as dead as I thought.
Someone reminded me of the old songs that I have lying about on the internet, and I almost felt a tummy ache. I’m not doing any kind of music these days, am I? I’m not even trying to get into a band any more, and apart from doing my vocal scales to keep on top, I can hardly qualify as a singer any longer.
So, for The Project, I’m seriously considering writing my own score. I’ve progressed pretty good on my old Ibanez to play simple tunes, and not just beat down chords. In a year’s time I should maybe be competent on the instrument. But I doubt I’ll have much time this autumn to keep it up much.
I can see my future. On Friday’s when I’m 50 or so I’ll sneak out to the Karaoke evening at the pub, and air my dusty pipes to the public, and it will sound horrible because I’ve not practised, and people will boo me off the stage. I’ll go home and sigh and feel bitter because I neglected it when I was young. And the next Friday I’ll be there, at the Karaoke night again, like a moth to the flame because I can’t keep myself from bursting into song.
I had an urge to go and read some William Blake while I was writing this, so I spent about thirty minutes looking for something that I hadn’t read before. “Tyger, tyger” is a bit cliché. What did I come up with? This one.
LONDON I wander through each chartered street, Near where the chartered Thames does flow, A mark in every face I meet, Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every man, In every infant's cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forged manacles I hear: How the chimney-sweeper's cry Every blackening church appals, And the hapless soldier's sigh Runs in blood down palace-walls. But most, through midnight streets I hear How the youthful harlot's curse Blasts the new-born infant's tear, And blights with plagues the marriage hearse.***
I just realised I’d written 600-ish words of absolutely nothing. I’ll stop now. Aren’t you sorry you started to read this blog? Soon I’ll describe the crack patterns of the paint as it ages on the wall, in about 1000 words, delivered by evening-time on the blog.