What kind of stuff could be shoveled inside of us?
These mountains? This house? The cat on the roof ?
We shovel food and drink inside us. We taste this and that, try to taste, we eat, we starve, we go on a diet.
We explore the world, us through the world, the world in us, the world incoming and outgoing.
We shovel in the mountains – through the optics of our eyes to the nerve endings and into the brain. And these mountains remain there. Or connect with the cat on the roof, with the house and with food.
And all this is mixed with creative excitement, and then falls out in the form of poems, pictures, stories and dreams, and even empty chatter and fears.
The cat can get lost in the mountains or fly up on a piece of cake, sweetly purring.
All this exhaustion of creativity is checked by internal censors. To be relevant, decent, adequate and calm.
How else? Otherwise it would be a kind of messy slush coming out.