Handwriting (1)

A hand, my hand, my handwriting, writes a handwritten blog. I am sitting across Emma in the Alphabetum of West. Surrounded by the unfinished book of Mallarmé, everything in my life breathes ‘book’ at the moment. A series of drawings I made ten years ago, white space, a line, the letter ‘o’. Searching for the magic of scripture, to feel how the other side is pulling, that or what or who is behind the words. ‘The Source’, I hear myself saying.