"Try again. Fail again. Fail better."
Things are happening, as they usually do, with more weight and definition, it being end of year. Friends in transit, itchy feet. Reworking ideas. Returning from Melbourne, two days on the ground, then to London. Notting Hill, on the lookout for coffee and Ian Brown with Paul. All this more than a year behind, travel again less than a year ahead. So much to plan and when there, so much to see and distil. I have rethought my ideas on where I take my work, but not how... that seems to be a constant of sorts; the more I read on surrealism, the more it seems to apply. Or not. Maybe it's the Irish in me? When Beckett spoke of how Joyce was a synthesizer, "trying to bring in as much as he could", and he was "an analyser", trying to leave out as much as he could. I can't go on. I'll go on.