Below is what I’ve been writing today, which is emerging from the studied encounter of post-it notes and utensils on my tabletop.

What’s important is that the writing be practical. It needs to be usable: it needs to be something you can read for yourself at home like you can use a tin opener without getting lots of user manuals out. There are references in it to the things I’ve been reading, but I want the text to make sense even if you don’t notice them. I have to think about how to footnote things later on. If I decide to stick with it, something like this will be the first few paragraphs of the commentary I’m writing for my Vyner St show next month.

It is that things are accretions of activity rendered pitifully apparent by the thickness of their substance. That it is a shame about things, we are ashamed and saddened by them, and that there is nothing to do but make them.

It is that the activity of making – the period of exertion writhing bright as imaginary skies – is pursued by its inevitable collapse into a thing. That activity is snuffed out by its accumulation into the thing that answers it. That these are real, handleable things which have persisted past the point of their making to be set into time, where they linger like the wear of a work boot or the ringing of an answer too shrill to withdraw.

It is that we might keep the activity of making, rather than its accretions, and that we might do this without gathering the activity into a thing in turn. It is that to gather is fraught with the risk of its gerund and the gerund its noun. That to make is already to gather. It is that making be intransitive. That it be subjunctive.

It is that making be dislodged from its object before they begin to collapse into one another. It is that to protect the activity we might refuse the thing its very creation despite its making, in the way that we might refuse the formulation of an answer despite its question being posed. It is that we might refuse the might of the answer, which owns its question no more than a thing owns its making.

It is that the question is raised by its infinite promise to the brink of collapse, and that from on high the view is spectacular. That at its peak the question almost lacks the voice that names it and in this highest breath asserts its rigour of incompleteness.