Under rug swept
Yesterday I was thinking about the things I don't like talking about, writing about, thinking about. Things I pretend do not exist, things I pretend are of no consequance (as long as nobody notices them). Things that make me feel uncomfortable or guilty or awkward or worthless. Things that would make the blood and meat of any good piece of writing - any good depiction of reality - I avoid. Money, sex, injustice, sickness, senselessness, envy, greed, fear, unfulfilled dreams, failure, deterioration, death. Justification and entitlement.
Then in the Smudge Gallery at Spitalfields, I ran into a reproduction of graffiti artist Banksy's "Sweeping it Under the Carpet."
People discount blogging as "public confession." There are things in our lives, however, that we can't even confess to ourselves. We just overlook them completely, we don't talk about them even in our heads. Self-censorship prevents one from capturing and depicting reality, one is then left with abstraction -bare bones- and other people's stories.
However disconcerting it is, facing reality with all its details and facets, inquiring beyond what I think I already know is the only way to something real.