Good morning to all people who slept enough but still woke up with bags under their eyes. 

This is probably going to be the intro for blogmas # 3 but, then again, I’m not sure. Wanting to direct with your creative output is never a good thing. My best pieces are usually those not constricted by self-awareness, those where I’m not judging my words, not trying to micro-manage, nor to sound right, smart, or literary. Not trying to sound like anything other than what I am at that moment in time. My best writing comes from listening. It sounds strange, perhaps. This quality of listening could be described by the absence of control at an intellectual level and attunement to what rings true, even if it sounds bizarre to the rational mind. And the allowing of it to come through. 

I have this unadmitted aspiration of, one day, sharing parts of my un-edited morning pages. I know that this isn’t the point of these scribbles as they serve as a warm-up to get you “in the zone,” but still. What I put on paper first thing in the morning can be so raw, so real, and I think that those qualities are what people connect to the most, rather than virtuous writing. My most perfected pieces are definitely not the ones that the public engaged with the most. “Afraid I can’t fall in love anymore” gets feedback to this day, even if, for me, it feels dated, and I don’t identify with the style anymore. 

What I mean to say is that there are so many nuggets of wisdom in these pages – it’s my truth after all – which I cherish, despite the silly writing enveloping them. Pages are a space for your chaotic mind to run free, for you to get trained in allowing the beast to express itself as freely as possible, and sift the gems through the rubble. Or then don’t sift through anything and simply carry on with your day. Sometimes the gravel is not worth stirring. As for me, pages are my offering of the day. Ana BCP will have to wait for tomorrow.

Header: “Back Album White Cube” exhibition @kunsthal, Rotterdam

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