jarg
I've been thinking about poetic prose lately. I don't read very much, but I try to appreciate what I do. I find it difficult to focus on nonfiction without thinking of the hands-on reality of what it takes to write it. Where does the layer come in? Someone goes out and experiences truth, and then attempts to pass it through the veil to the other people. Or worse, they try to grab something through the veil to pass it on. Fiction's simpler, I think. It's not so much about the objects, but about the puppetry of pressing them on the fabric. It's a performance that leverages the softness of shadows to create an entertaining effect, ignoring (perhaps embracing?) the veil that doesn't let anything through.
I want to write, but I run up against having nothing to say. But maybe not having anything to pass through the veil doesn't really matter if you're just doing shadow puppetry. Starting cynically, insisting that it's about the pretty lights, regardless of form, regardless of function, is still a start. Even if the lights aren't pretty. Inspiration comes from art, they say, and not the other way around.
There's a dog in the apartment beneath me that growls at everything that passes the window. It's comforting, like the sound of a motor spinning up, to take me home.