The Lent
Project is more reflection than penance, but continually faces me with my
limitations. My messy desk. Blots on paper. The wrong brushes. Measurements,
and how not to take them. Mixing styles: a bad idea. Finding out this is a bad
idea. Not waiting for the paint to dry: so impatient. Ink and watercolours in a
book so any mistakes stay around to be regretted. Just gotta live with it. A lot like life.
Do I have
the time to do this today? Where can I make the time? Am I pushing time? Should
I have done this yesterday? Sure. What thing has to go elsewhere, even out, so
I can find the time? Is time not it, but he, as the Mad Hatter proposes? Where
is he? Hiding? Asleep? In another reality? Is Time but a feckless child?
The moment
you engage with poetry you are faced with its intellectual quality. Poetry is
one language, drawing another. Words and images have to speak to one another. Some
lines, even the most descriptive, are abstract. Faced with the abstraction of
all words. What’s beneath, behind, within words? Searching the words of poets
to find the image beyond all words.
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