Our Yesterday Was Precious

THE SPARK THAT BLED

Overheard, this morning, in the doorway of Snowden’s Greengrocers, Cross Roads:

Albert Snowden: Its a sad end

Man: He were eighty you know

Albert: I didn’t know he cut his wrists

Man: (turning to walk away, smiling) Not another one

Albert: (bellowing) HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! (turns to me) Yes love.

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‘There is a point where any adult attempt at understanding becomes an absurdity. Eventually, we look at the griefs we’re offered by experience, and there we are: inconsolable, powerless to dispel their weight through rationalization of acceptance. That is what seems to unite every disparate soul.. finally: we’re all helpless’

Mark Doty, ‘Dog Years’, Jonathan Cape, 2008

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‘ ** Is the real point of my life simply to undergo as little pain and as much pleasure as possible? My behaviour sure seems to indicate that this is what I believe, at least a lot od the time. But isn’t this a kind of selfish way to live? forget selfish – isn’t it awful lonely? ** ‘

David Foster Wallace, ‘Joseph Frank’s Dostoevsky’ in ‘Consider the Lobster and Other Essays’ Abacus, 2005

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Paying Attention

I have shrunk my life, by choice in the past weeks. I haven’t had the energy or the will for creative projects or socialising that I normally give most of my time and attention to.

In this little alcove of time and space that I’ve made for myself, and removing myself from social and creative obligations means that I am noticing things more. Paying attention, being observant, aware, present, is something I am not very good at. My natural state is one of distraction. I have been working on this for a while via a zine series I make called ‘This Is Water: 7 Days of Trying to Pay Attention’ (inspired by the a speech of the same name given by the late U.S. writer David Foster Wallace) (http://jeanmcewan.com/zines-and-artist-books/zine-…) as I am essentially a living-in-your-head, space-cadet type person. This isn’t just a personal concern but also a creative one. If I’m not paying attention, aware of the world around me, then how can I be a good artist? An ex flatmate once expressed horror that when I was on my foundation course at the lack of my observation skills, and I’ve never forgotten it.

ButI am finding that at the moment it is a great comfort to pay attention to what’s around me, because its easier than thinking about bigness of my losses or the enormity of death. I can only be here, now.

So patterns, shapes, colours, conversations all seem more resonant. That shadow, those weeds in the yard, the texture of defrosting ice on the tub of food at work, what that person said, the way they said it. I’m noticing. This is something I’ve been trying and failing at for a long time. And now it seems easy. How very weird.

Read This Is Water by David Foster Wallace here http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2008/sep/20/fictio…