I’m just home, no, not quite “home”. Rather, back from a meeting where the subject was boarding school; and that which lurks behind the smile of survival. There was a picture of school trunks. I am still feeling very sick and shaky.
Seemed an idea to look again at the work in progress.
The wisdom of wax and casting of shadow.
My little mannequins have been dipped, and the mask behind the mask, drenched.
Earlier the moon and the cathedral were so beautiful, while just yards away the Clarence hotel gaped in sad demolition.
Sanctuary and dereliction in one and the same place.
Beethoven writes as his instruction for the second time round of the arioso dolente in the middle section of opus 110.
He was almost demolished by despair over his failing health, yet rose in sheer will to blast his way out in the final fugue.