First version

The constancy of my longing unnerves and depletes me.

My longing is nostalgic - a dream of the past.

A dream of a past where art is self-expression, universality, philosophy, spirituality and aesthetic delight all rolled into one, and artists are purveyors of truth. A time of innocence and simplicity.

I’m grieving and believing in this dream except when I’m mocking and despising it, and neither position is in any way undermining the other.

I don’t really want this dream to come true. The desired end is of course the state of longing, not the state of achieving the longed for. That is really and truly what I want – I’m not just accepting what is possible.

Within the state of longing is the perfect space of non-committal and incorruptibility.

When I look at art, all I see is the impossibility of assimilation, and I resort to imitation. Maybe I am plagued by the fear of being found personally not enough. Talent is a problem – it seems such an arbitrary quantity, but I keep returning to it believing that it hides a slippery truth. Homage is such a difficult thing these days, but my homage is absolutely sincere. It is hardly affected by my all-consuming and deeply committed cynicism.

Death may be an inescapable reality, but this does not seem to preclude the achievement of immortality and transcendence. Sometimes art seems to be telling me that immortality is possible in an entirely literal and non-metaphorical way.

My life is a lived experience of inescapable unity. My body my ooze and leak but it will always remain confined within more or less decent limits. I fear blood on my knickers, but I don’t fear a complete dissolve. These are just feelings though, and not to be trusted.

I try to always maintain a position of absolute but suspicious commitment to my heart’s attachment to selfhood.

I question whether philosophic statements have any relevance outside a contradictory lived reality, but I could never commit myself one way or the other. While Post-structuralism sometimes makes me tired, I would wish to avoid supporting any essentialist backlash.

Depletion – I am very tired - there is a loss of hope and a loss of dreams. Within the loss there is freedom – to have nothing is to be free. Of course I like this and I choose it. Loss is always lack though, and lack is always despair.

Sometimes I feel I am part of a generation of artistic cripples where every possibility of pleasure and fulfilment is denied. I don’t believe in anything. Risk taking becomes impossible because there has to be a reason for doing it. Sometimes I wish it was different. I want to be part of an avant-garde movement; I want to be passionate; I want to be in pain. I try very hard to create it but it’s hard to fake that kind of stuff and I just end up feeling silly.

I believe in art, but of course not really. I believe in myself, but not very much. I believe in a celebration of individuality, just don’t expect me to be interested.

The constancy of my longing unnerves and depletes me.