Dienst

Even though I feel the desire to write (like I mean it), I can't seem to get centered. While I am producing movement in my hands, peppered with a few thoughts, a few feelings, nothing cohesive is coming forth. No full meal-only side dishes-some scattered peas, a stringbean or two.

Maybe this is not even worth noting, not even worth posting. What I offer should be somewhat cohesive, legible, sensible. Here's my official "mea culpa"-an excuse for not producing.

But the rest of the picture is here, too. For everything we write or draw or sculpt, there needs to be throwaway-waste. Mistakes, false leads, roads taken but abandoned thereafter.
Although my Germanic background calls out for daily product ("Dienst" comes to mind-the German word for duty or service) -be it painting, writing , sculpture, I can't escape this fact: nothing can be made from scratch without the scratchings, without the seemingly useless ramblings. Maybe there are those out there who would prove me wrong, but the whole scenario seems to follow scientific law. Later comes the efficiency, along with assembly-line perfection. Art needs to have erasers as steady companions.
To digress-one of the toughest habits I ever tried to break was not using an eraser in my work as a surveyors' helper. The idea behind this was that visible revisions and corrections might help later as evidence in solving inconsistencies. This (in not using the eraser) was like being a smoker suddenly deprived of cigarettes-the hand keeps reaching for the pack in the pocket, then feels that momentary melancholy and disbelief. I never did stop reaching for my eraser.