The Idea Machine

So, it somehow seems easy. Watch what goes on around, on advertising boards, in people's behaviour, their sweet gestures, their ignorance and bad manners, their love and other qualities. Then absorb the world around, the way the sky moves, oh, I see, those are the clouds. Yes, observe their colourful movements, the way they romance the sky behind and the earth beneath. Marvel at nature, soak up the art and passion and emotions on show everywhere you take your steps, with every footstep a new angle, a different shade of everything. What happens? ideas come. A neverending stream of them. Some monologue, consciousness, out on its own, sometime compatible with another, rarely, oh, rarely so.

They come all the time. It isn't something that has a switch, at times overwhelming, sometimes colossal, majestic, unfathomable. I am not going to say all the ideas are good, maybe that would only be a small portion of them, and lots of ideas are never followed through or completed, but they come at such a pace it would be impossible to transform them all into living and breathing figures of strength and power and fragility and grace.

I plan on enjoying it while I can swim in such mystical and strange waters. It is to be an artist, to wallow in something impossible to understand, and then endeavour to complete some of the ideas, the warm ones, the dark ones, the ones that stand out. It all makes sense, even if nothing really does. Like all machines, it is going to become old, work less fluidly and break down. It will then be replaced by something other, modern, less capable perhaps, and then be forgotten. I hope I can milk the machine in the meantime. Give you something. That I hope for, if nothing more.