I've already commmented on Halley's inspired piece, though perhaps adding my clumsily expressed thoughts on art like that does nothing to praise it. Whatever. Anyway, for a few days now I've been pondering why I'm so reluctant to pull the Powerbook out on the train and write. I won't do it when the person sitting next to me might be able to read what I write. Not even when that person is my dear wife, though I fully expect her to read the finished piece. Recently at work, I was typing a chatty email to a colleague when she wandered around to see me. My reaction was to quickly hide the open window so she wouldn't see the very words I was about to send her. Why? Well, I know this seems utterly obvious and unoriginal, but I think it's because the act of writing is a deeply private experience. This is not something I'd ever really thought about. Here's the bit Halley wrote that let me see: ...in a friend's back room on a Saturday early evening when everyone else was drinking beer, but you politely explained to your already tipsy hostess that you'd pass on the beer, but was there anywhere you might slip into a private room and ... Christ it was dirty and hot and almost as fun as stealing her husband for a few hours to fuck while no one was watching ... could you please BLOG a little in private? We pour out our feelings, express our emotions, for an audience, be it one or many, but we don't want them to see us doing it. Are painters similarly sensitive? And potters and sculptors and architects? Or is it just me that's sensitive?
5:14:54 PM
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