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epitome of incomprehensibility
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Reviewing. I feel an impulse to do so, in some form or other, when I see something artistic, especially something artistic that's narrative, like a concert or book or movie. Not so much a painting. I don't understand them. I do them, such as when I'm listening to music, but only with cheap materials and not the giant ceiling brush that Julie Binoche used in the movie Words_and_Pictures. (I do things, and I am trying to do things more purposefully, though I can't promise to do everything well. Jack of all trades is reviewer of She that can't do, teach not_quite_truisms.)
But some notes about concerts are still just in my journal or little green notepad, because when I write something in one place I often get too lazy to write about it in another place, even though I know revision helps concizify things.
Reviewing reminds me that I have pride, sometimes too much of it. I'll sometimes read book reviews on Amazon.com, and then think, I don't want to review a book there - why should I waste my time promoting their business? Maybe that kind of pride is OK. I haven't gotten anything of the reviewing sort officially published yet. It's more a thing I do that helps me remember stuff I experienced. And in a way it's not selfish, because you're focusing on someone else's work and trying to connect with it without placing yourself at the centre of attention.
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