Spastic Ex Nihilo
It is with some frequency that I ponder the question of just where in the hell the various things I spend my time making, particularly on stimulusresponse, actually come from. I sit there in my armchair and ask myself, “where does it all come from?” I draw on my pipe, a bit like Gandalf, and muse.
Just now, for instance, I sat out on the balcony in the idyllic Copenhagen sun, the sound of children playing all around me, notebook in hand. I wrote: “LICK THAT KNIFE. LICK IT. LICK IT CLEAN. MMMM. KNIFE TASTE IN MY MOUTH.” I submit this to you and I ask, “where does it all come from?”
I often romanticise artists – maybe we all do – and thus I might like to think of these things as the beautiful creation, ex nihilo, of other worlds or something like that. But in my more honest moments, they seem like the spastic flinching of a brain unwilling to be particularly coherent, or even to reflect on what it’s going. Not that I’m worried, but at times it feels like a bit of a “this is not my beautiful house” scenario: I used to think I wanted to be a novelist which is all about making large scale, sustained , and more or less coherent stories.
But instead I have the attention span of a gnat. I twitch and shift and wonder where it all comes from.