27 February 2013
Coconut flower stalks, coconut flex, banana straw and raffia.
Between projects and a little out of sorts, I spied the bag of
booty I had brought down from Corn Buck a few weeks ago
and looked inside. Play, the doing of something for the sheer
pleasure of it, is a pastime that I have forgotten to indulge in.
Work is worthy, as is cleaning, cooking etc. but play, as with
sticks in mud or a stone skimmed, has somehow become
something that I find myself either never having the time for
or feeling guilty about.
The very word 'indulge' suggests a secret vice.
I was surprised to realise this about myself, surprised by how
serious and earnest I had become about 'the work' and even
more surprised by the fact that I was surprised that the flow
of creativity had dried up.