I'm writing about patterns again. Writing but in a kind of turpentine spill. Reads like a pseudo-somethingist's scrawl. Blather. Like the 'mad' Dog Catcher in FNQ, whose intriguing books (scientific observations and sketches?) he begged Vaddi to look at. The 'spill' is a place. A place for inspiration. I can't articulate the concepts that sometimes ghost their way into me. Yet I don't want to miss them, lose them, search again for them. They just river from other places, through me, and if I can place something of them into my own work then they can keep moving. I don't really work enough though - or rather, I'm not finishing much at the moment. Just scribbling trunks and murmuring harmonies.
Vaddi never looked at the Dog Catcher's books. The dogs chased the Dog Catcher.