An exhibition, “Water on the Lens,” contains images of underwater shoots for film, TV, commercials and pop videos taken at Pinewood Studios’s Underwater Stage and showcased at The Movieum, London’s Film Museum.

Blah blah blah.

Arrested.

Supsended.

Breath-revoked.

That’s the long and the short of it, here, now.

Except of course for being utterly swallowed by that instant, held, speech-busted. You with me?

And then we get back to the world and it’s all, What’s going on? Who’s in there? How did they do that?

Anyway, this is my metaphor for writing tonight. Writing gone well. The craft and the mystery. The line that is so perfectly executed you don’t see the strings, the air lines, the scaffolding. You can’t quite believe it exists, but you believe it immediately, and without question. It’s a thing as tender as a secret, and as exciting; as fragile as a newborn and as vigorous and knowing as God the CIA and Your Conscience Almighty that you are compelled, paradoxically and at once, to protect it and hide from it. And in the end, it is the honesty of the thing that hurts you in that place where all your beauty and shame and terror like to hide.

Now that’s art. The rest is just 1.2 million litres of blood, sweat, tears and blah blah blah.