In front of me here are the goods of café work procrastination: a banana, coffee, phone, essays, strangers, rain and my wool sweater. I have such a spongy exterior, I listen to a podcast about politics, and I think I’m supposed to be a politician. I go to a museum and think I too could cut out magazines and turn them into butterflies. I see lovers holding hands in the park, and it my curious path, I’m sure that’s meant to be me. I read about psychology, and I think the devious conditions are mine. At a poetry reading, I hear a set of sounds denoted by symbols, and I have found my lost calling – sound in text. I sing along with a new musician and I think I’m destined to do that myself.
I am. I am meant to be that person in the present moment. To lead, to create, to love, to be flawed, to make sound, make sound. (May xound).
In my mind I keep coming back to Picasso. As a youngster he hit the art scene in Paris as a force. He was well trained, and wildly talented. I must have seen a documentary on this at some point, but I remember that in addition to his gifts of skill and innovation, he was an astounding thief. My old Professor Laure-Anne Bosselaar used to say “Good writers borrow, great writers steal.” I think it’s a T.S. Eliot line.
Picasso is known as a pioneer of the Cubist movement, but that came out of Paul Cezanne, and was co-championed with Georges Braque. Before that he was painting like Symbolists, and took a turn to tint it blue. He is a revisionist, an idea man. Later in life he sank into a consistent style: a line hinting at a face, a shaded shape hinting at movement, a system breathing its own new air.
I am no Picasso, no Art Scholar. But I do see a link. I start with what’s right in front of me. Steam. A polished cement floor. Coffee, a banana, a pincurl of time. Then while I watch, I write it: and while I write it, it changes. Bob Irwin wrote a book perfectly titled Seeing is Forgetting the Name of the Thing One Sees. So, the challeng is to forget, to forget that you forgot, and to forge it anew.