10/03/2024
For a very long while, I had been feeling deeply demotivated creatively. It was a heavy underlying question along the lines of "What's it all for?" What is the honest offering of art?
I read this poem today, which talked about entering and exiting History. It stirred something in me. The phenomenological idea of 'epoche' (which I had many a scrape and squabble with as an anxious Postgrad) came back from the depths of memory to haunt me.
Something about being able to remove yourself from cemented readings of things. Methods of re-examination.
Some distilled version I'm fidgeting with now says something along the lines of: make space for a makeshift playground amidst the turmoil. Don't play to escape. Play to process, to dissect, to reflect, to refute, and reimagine. If possible, situate your playground where the pain lives. And leave the gate open. Keep that space far from precious. Make your plays far from momentous.
Just make sure to refuse the idea that it's all been said and done and spoken for.