recherche

I am in London, researching the relation London Hungarians have to their traditional heritage or rather hunting down symbols. I'm also forcing a dialogue, and they tell me they're here to work. Creating a dialogue when things are normal, and again I feel like attracting far-away romantic notions back on the grounds. This 'work' or 'labour of love', or 'labour on work' is for me as much as it is for them. Does it make it awkward nevertheless?
I feel like I'm painting a horizontal line in yellow on one of Depardon's diagonally driven roads thriving for a horizontal landscape, or rather I'm lost in Paris, Texas and really tracing this line (I'll go for black, references old timer's warm melted tar, the kind deserved for a cowboy's shoulders) while the dust feeds into the hot paint, and the white interrupted line goes on to kill the imaginary distance.
Why did Johnny Cash just pop in on the radio? I'm not joking..
I am told to remember the importance of working for others, painting on their grounds, yet sinking into paternalistic visions of truth as I take each step. Wherever the road goes I'm convinced it's for each other's good, and this makes me as living as my subject. Hopefully words will follow as images chill yet words of ponder, not of chilling.
Every evening I come back and pass the shivering cold light reflected along the neck of my bass. I click on the radio and the next day I'm off with a bit of my library humming in the ears. Cables of thought, fort though arsed modern.
Echoe of the woman, living ghost of our university, whose words like a cold knife reminded me of unworthy stillness of our aims, our methods, our texts. "Is this what Goldsmiths has become?" Like the cabin boy I answered in my breath how little I knew..
The best steps, therefore, are those that will be taken unexpectedly.