He sits there and he does something. He looks at it and he wonders why it is not what he wants it to be. He wishes that he could cut it out of his mind and put it on the page, but there is nothing that lets him do that … yet.
Automatic writing lacks the intention of him so he feels uncomfortable calling it his. The same with all the random means of painting that rely to some degree on random action.
He starts taking and leaving notes whenever a thought strikes him. He condenses what he loves into these notes. He is not thinking about it and he is not expecting anything of it. He just wants to communicate about the beautiful things he sees.
One of his friends finds all these notes one day and starts reading through them. They are smiling, beaming at the words in front of them, flying through all these notes, compelled to read the next one.
‘You got out of your own way,’ says his friend.
He wants to say that he doesn’t know what they mean, but he surely does.