Objects. I have an ambivalent relationship with objects. With objects I follow one precept: in a typical month I dispose, by whatever means, of more than I acquire. There are few objects I want, mostly books and music (CDs and downloads), European wine, very occasionally a piece of contemporary art. Wine is easy to dispose of, books and music are given away, deleted. Art can be sold, at least in theory, but I time my purchases poorly, paying too much for an overexposed artist, never spotting the Hirsts of the future.
During a spare half hour today I found an object that I used to own. In a second-hand record and CD shop I discovered a copy of Siouxsie and the Banshees’s Hyaena. Originally issued in 1984 it represented the band’s transition from icons of the suburban south-east London punk scene to a more Goth sound, like The Cure. Older fans hated it, but I thought it brilliant. Being too young to have been in on punk from its mid-seventies origins, I made my own of post-punk. I’ve just finished my third memory-inducing play of Hyaena.
Frank Kafka – Diaries 1921
18 October. Eternal childhood. Life calls again.
It is entirely conceivable that life’s splendour forever lies in wait about each one of us in all its fullness, but veiled from view, deep down, invisible, far off. It is there, though, not hostile, not reluctant, not deaf. If you summon it by the right word, by its right name, it will come. This is the essence of magic, which does not create but summons.