Tuesday, 19 August 2008


What would it be like to look at the grass smothered with dew in the early morning and not think, 'cellophane'? Or look at the same lawn, later in the day, when the sun has come unambiguously out, and not think 'pistachio in direct light, and ivy where the fence lays that block of shadow...'? I don't believe it's different from a poet, too thoroughly immersed in her practice, who thinks of everything in terms of rhyme; or a dedicated player of the rubik's cube who puts the toy down after several hours, and looks up to see the heads of the people around them in terms of shifting and turning and rotating the different planes of ears, noses, scalps, jaws and so on.

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