Early fall foggy misty dew morning that gets my boots wet!
I am bouncing along like a slightly-past-prime helium balloon. I know when to push it, but I'm not sure I know when to not. I wish it didn't take walking right up to the line to know I have the power of 100 ponies within me. Where do you hold the reins? When do you let go?
Even after questioning and working and putting together more more more until the last moment I am still hung up on certain hangings. There's something so rewardingly exhausting about the speed of the train. And the momentum that keeps the wheels turning. I will not be depleted.
I am a machine! I have turned myself into a machine. May I not lose my humanity.
It's time for foraging. I am eating raspberries off the thorny vines and holding everything in my palm. May there be more detours. May every rest stop be more restful less stop. Thank you to those who encourage the scenic byway. By way of seeing anything is scenic (byway).
There is a hungry hamster running around in a plastic bubble, unafraid of bumping up against the limits. May I be a window, a hole, a portal.
When the clock wont stop running, is it as important to count the ticks? Have I been diligent in my tick checking? I need to work on putting words to what it is that I am thinking. I need to pan for gold. I am crazy about the screen. net. fish.
I want to scream from the rooftops:
Thank you! I am alive! I am living! I have no roof access but climbing a tree is just as good! I need vantage! I am not an object but I am a tool! You can do anything you decide to! Everything is good and fine and well! I will not be fooled!
Every season has something that comes in season. Right now it's the season of writing and explaining. Calling out into nothingness with a hook. Saying this is who I am and what I do and why I am interested. (could you be too)? How perfectly humiliating. What an ego trip!
(is that what I'm doing here? why does it feel different?)
An excerpt from a draft statement:
I am curious about what it is that compels me to see something and say "that's a painting." It's the same game as naming clouds. I am hyper-specific in a varied way. How can I find the balance between the deeply personal and yet universal? Specificity leaves space for similarity. What makes eyeballs hum, what makes hearts sing?
Can I put everything in a blender and it be the same but different?
Does it have to go in a pot to make the old new?
Bonking and clonking,
E