Late Night Thoughts While Listening to the Music in My Head
I ought to be sleeping. Instead I will try to write a sort of shorthand for my thoughts: I sometimes let the occasions of the day slip into my writing, as if my well-preserved draught gets tainted with a fresh juice (juissance?). It would be nice to have the talent to stick to intentions to not pander to ephemera, to not go chasing will-of-the-wisps, but I sometimes need the boost. I also justify it by thinking that we are always try to sing in tune with the mystic chord. I was in Greenwich today, at the Painted Hall, and I couldn't help but intone a scale that reminded me of "Yesterday." I think the time and the place calls the tune. The painter not only always paints himself, but he paints himself at the time.