Process

For ten years now I have written the same line, erased it and written it over again. In this way I have filled hundreds of notebooks. Each day I get closer to Giacometti’s fine filagree of nothing. The fretwork of the mind. My masterpiece will return music to the shuttered Symphony Centre. Descending from the evening sky it will break open into 150,000 birds, alighting like some great airborne beast, onto the outstretched arms of waiting trees. In the forest, flautists are warming up in soundproof huts. It is only a matter of hours now. The work went well this morning. As is often the case, sorrow entered with a flutter. A hand darkened the sun and I was left wondering who will feed the animals when the hunger arrives?