Sometimes I feel like.

Let me start over.

There are moments, days, entire blocks of my waking life when I wish I could immerse myself – but unthinkingly, that is, without thinking, without being compelled to think, having to string thought-images together in logical sequences – or fall, as if off a bridge, into art. Into the artistic. Whenever I’m commenting on or thinking about art I feel like I’m pretending, like I’m building artificial connections, spiderweb links. But I think immersing myself, the whole of my body, like ducking under a wave, experiencing the crest and the rush from beneath, alone, is right and something I want. I think it’s something I want. To fall into it to be caught and carried by it.

Like a child thrown by his father only to be caught to be thrown again.

What did Eliot write? Something about a heap of broken images.

But yeah. That’s it.