At the beginning of day one I looked at the canvas and sank into a sleep for fourteen seconds. I woke refreshed and looked once again as sparks grew and smiled like Dying Angels. The war has begun or at least the revolution. The freedom of souls is near and the Imagination can at last have it's day. I light my last cigarette not being able to contain myself anymore and look deep into the vision of despair that shines at me from the easel. The wind blows through the cracked window after the street has belched out the remnants of it's last supper.

Children pray to Jesus in the cool Morning rain and the Dancers shuffle past on their way to the Factories and Offices. I drain the last dregs of Wine from the Dirty cup on the floor and wonder if my work is complete or just beginning. I enjoy the taste of the warm smoke as it drifts like a soft kiss deep into my lungs. In a couple of days I can smile for a short while but for now I must content myself with the solitude of a forgotten lifetime and a destroyed intellectual promise that every tortured song can be. The sounds of the resolved years echo in my ears and give me some indication that maybe hope has a reason and a place in the world at the time of the sparks and the dropping of the first bombs. Ilook at the dry barren landscape on the canvas and wonder where the Mallards will swim when all the water turns to a blue dust and forges a united plane for the Gods to play with once again.

An enigma of Blanche Derval with a superimposed Cathedral beard stares at me from the empty wall. Sometimes a comfort and sometimes a distraction. I am so at home in the dark corner that all other places seem foreign to me at this moment which is the present and therefore the only truth without contradiction. The dust can wrap me over like a lovers shroud and the sweet candle can fragrance the air like a pomade.

Will we ever win this fight or must survival be the only rest? Must perpetual disguise and therefore the pain without blood be the only solution or can we find another way? I look at a sketch in a page of my diary. The grey of the card reflects the grey of the morning. In the middle a thin wiry hand limply holds a hammer which is smashing a round clock. From the clock a swarm of wasps emerges and buzz around a human brain. From the severed part of the hand emerges a trail of blood like a thin red stream ending in a black pool. In the distance stand two doors. One door is closed, the other is open to reveal the eternal night. A bright sunlight shines in the bottom left hand corner revealing a mug of coffee and a cigarette above which hovers a red bloodshot eye. From the eye drips a solitary cool blue tear, hovering and waiting to put the sun out. "This is the dawn of Civilisation." I whisper. "Or the end of humanity." comes the reply from the hole in the wall.

All can and must relate to the present in order to remain appropriate. I found a small piece of sponge yesterday just lying in the road. It was about the same size as a half brick, yellow but heavily soiled giving it the appearance of sand stone but soft to the touch and therefore strangely feminine. Disused but resting; poor but happy. In need of nothing but having nothing. It had no desire but yet it still existed. I found it quite beautiful and therefore rescued it and brought it home (I have it at the side of me now). The longer I studied the Object the clearer the imagery of it's enigma emerged. As each wall decays to produce the stunning complex landscapes of erosion, the dust collects in corners waiting to create the new horizon. The soft urban texture of the sponge brought to mind a brick from the wall in the house of flesh at the end of the fourteen mile road.

The walk to the Rat wash shop is always different. I once found a piece of broken door right at the beginning of the tunnel where a short way down one can see "The best of both worlds", an image where the dissolved reflective destruction of nature, personified by the hole in the wall blends with the image of constructive social practicality personified by the Pipe in the wall. I considered this to be a beautiful apparition. In fact rarely have I seen a wall containing a shot such as this. One or the other yes , but not together in such harmony. I brought the piece of door home with me and am yet to be convinced that it is not a work of genius. Left anonymously at the mouth of the tunnel 'till discovered. A rare intrinsic beauty that could never grace a ladies smile and therefore never to be discarded again . Once a useful tool now so lovely it could bring tears of joy to the eyes of The Gods!

Later that evening I spent a few hours in the company of an old friend. Past laughter echoed round the room washing the blood from the shirt. Pints of cold cider as refreshing as the days of haunted youth and mistimed pleasures. Anything to ease the torture of perpetual survival. As clean wood surrounds the night air encasing the cool blue haze of the smoke, freedom belongs only to the brave ones who express the emotions without song and maybe share the golden hours as the tide comes in. The way ahead becomes clear as perfect desire cannot stop the beauty that can be nothing more save shared powder tantra kisses on the softest angel breast.

I found a pack of miniature playing cards in the corner of a drawer whilst looking for something else this evening. A full deck of tiny cards about two centimetres in diameter, made of paper and of course totally impractical for the purpose of playing card games. Miniature playing cards have always seemed to me to be portable Dadaist ready-mades. Easy to carry about in the pocket to be brought out and admired at any moment. The Ace of Clubs is a particular favourite of mine as are any of the picture cards. Packed away in a compact little yellow box to be stroked like kittens in the darkest hours. Comfort zones defying all logic and therefore existing as sculptured reminders of pastimes and rest to put a smile on any face. I am now experiencing the longing one feels when clean out of cigarettes. The pleasant trip through the park searching for Dead trees. Over the road and into the graveyard. Round the bend, past the large industrial mesh I once saw through the eyes of a bin man and through the gateway leading to the house of four teeth and the welcoming smile of "That dear sweet Old Lady."

Dogs bark in the streets of all nations to drown the cries of pain that seep through the walls like spooks needing no hole to climb through and no pipe to shin down. Escaping invisibly into the mist. The silent drone of shallow existence fills the air like Tinnitus and hovers around the feet of everyone. A train journey would be the order of the day perhaps as the last one was perfectly charming. Such a desire Smells of fragments of German rubble raining down as Tulip petals onto the grey streets of Liverpool but alas it was not to be. The enigma of my disappointment is a broken house in the countryside brightened only by the rainbow of a smile within a cave. The wind can cry no more for the East and the water in the deep blue pool reflecting light blue mist is unfit for human consumption. The shed with no front would have been a perfect location to cement our bonding in the Factory days but alas it was sadly not to be. This time of course there can be no reality to confuse the situation and therefore no harm can come to the soul by pursuing the journey. A journey taken by all at one time or another but only the open eye can see the beauty. It could be anywhere, the location is irrelevant. The Station platform smells sweet the world over. Breathe deep and long as pinnacles of fortune explode like embers on the track.

Reality does invade and that could be the problem within the Enigma (or the dilemma facing the listening ones with no ears.)

This will be a recurring theme which is one way of resolving everything into the present which we all must do to survive. Ripped black plastic speaks of old majestic speak and old Victorian Gentlemen in fresh dust surrounds. Speaking very slowly in soft tones but always with an underlying menace of ludicrous information from the past that speaks only of survival and vacuous pleasure, daily beatings and ill information from stolen books.

T
here are no rules.

Could?

No solution but a beautiful enigma!

This?

The chosen object of today.

Always?

Perpetual observation to determine perspective

What do I do when the canvas is full?

How many Oranges can you get in a box?