I cut stories to make sense of my fingers and my thoughts and to find a place where they can play together, be together. I cut stories out of nothing, scraps and throw aways, keepsakes and papers and things collected over the years. Sometimes they come and then I don't like them, so they are torn and crumpled and weathered and scratched until I like what I see and sometimes, that just never happens. I cut stories so that I don't have to make any up or speak of any, I can just cut and stick and think endless thoughts. I can keep an eye on Mike Tyson v Evander Holyfield and one eye on the cream like acrylic that I smear to conceal and scratch to reveal. And when you watch boxing whilst cutting stories, before you know it you're speaking in rhymes like you're Cassius Clay on a fine, fine day and that's why I'm trying to cut a story each day. So here are days one, two, three and four, and maybe, just maybe if I keep the mood there'll be more.
* For Lydia, who pulled a dying insect from my vaseline covered lips and pointed out the dry white acrylic patch on my wrist that I'd missed when cleaning up before the school run, and for prompting me to blog instead of just thinking about it!