Editor, editing

I hate to curate as I work. There are times for this and there are times for pure release. Allowing yourself to put your ideas into the world and not judge them. To test without quality assurance, build without health and safety regulations other than intuitive pressing and knocking.

The editor this week has stifled the maker. However, in an effort to not only let practice play out but to let part of practice be the framing of practice, I have allowed this to happen and trust that it has been necessary, important to watch myself shift between roles, to recognize what I enjoy, where I thrive, where I stumble and glitch.

If I could stop vocalizing, not to stop thinking or even speaking, but to mute, so that I can watch what's going on around me and allow it a chance to speak with something other than words, this would be a feat.

To witness is to learn and grow, to self witness is feast.

There it is

The lights float across my vision silently, but the sounds are muted, maybe because my mind is full, perhaps they are loud and disruptive, but I don't hear them.

Afternoons stretch into nights here, I am remembering how to do that. To let hours pass, to let belly become empty.

I can stretch life out further on less this way.
Drop things off the plate, watch them crash onto cold concrete or disappear into dry soil.
Did they matter? Perhaps they can feed someone else's fury.

The images are slowing.
The sounds are melding.
The steps move from a shuffle to a simple march.

I'm finding that new rhythm.

Give it to me

She lifts something for me. Day, light, weight, dark.

She can stand there - for only a moment - looking at me, not for reassurance, but to share.

She gives me that part of her. With this, at the premier I can rise:

You are doing a good job.

--

I take a moment to jump off the surface of the plaent. Nothing separating me from the earth itself but my skin. I jump and pull atoms away with me. Then I lay on my back and make as much contact with the dirt as I can. I try to imagine 20,000/mph. As if.

A million seconds is 2 weeks.
A billion seconds is 32 years.

I can't tell you if it's been 2 minutes or 12 since I starting writing. It makes me wonder if there is a real difference. Also, I wonder if my questions are not wrong or faulty, but simply bad.

Speak for yourself

Every letter is pressed carefully - each one intentional and meaningful yet they mean nothing as letters. I speak and the sounds blur into words, lips move into formation. (Ok ladies.)

Offering truths or lies, facts or fictions as is necessary or needed to get you from one point to the next, one moment to another. The phase just past informs that which follows - it's best not to rehearse if you want to get it right.

Who does that?