Time. Art.

I find the ticking of clocks comforting. It means I'm still alive and following each second.Each moment of time is happening, and I'm there in it.

I am a vulnerability.

I do not value art over experience. Over existence. Art is a profound part of existence, but it is a part that arises from life. Art is life, but life is not just art.

I do not create to prove my existence, to situate it. My being is already proven, in steps and standstills, gestures, voices, and heartbeats. I create to live my life more fully. To sink deeply into and delineate my experiences. The experiential is where the passion and power lie. The heart and bones and blood and mind. The senses reaching out and drawing in, synapses snapping and pumping invitations of knowledge through and to the mind. Rational captures imagination, twists into something vibrant and strange.

I go back to pencil and paper, a sound of sliding rather than the clacking or clatter of keys. My hands forming the words themselves, appearing, to fill space and leave the mysterious of fervor and forever in imperfect spaces.

The craft, art, does not come before the heart. It is a manifestation of it, a tool, a medium of communication, of exultation and woe. A space to be safe in an otherworld home when this world is too bitter and vicious. A vessel to be held in, or to hold in palms up and cupped in offering to yourself, to your lover, your loved ones, to the word. Water pooling to be poured.

It is not good enough now to fit a form, to place yourself into the hands of established meaning and structure. Our bodies are not aligned in the same ways, and our thoughts, given space, are so much more than we have let them be. We don't need to deliver anything. We don't need to finish anything.

I have not but my hands, my feet, my body, my lungs, my voice, my mind, my breath, my tongu an unending list. I will not shift my forminto a preconceived (such a shell of a word, a cage, predetermined, too) immutable shape. I will work without the constraining luxury of empty rules.

In Diane Ackerman's Book " A natural history of the senses", she speaks of a composer ( Villa Lobos, I think, could be wrong), who would sketch the outlinrd of a mountain range, from a different vantage point each day. He would take this drawing of ups and downs, lines cy=urving and sharp, rising to blend, and sit at the piano, composing along with, against this image, music structured, following, this image. These lines.

I wish to live so organically, and create by what we live, what we see, and what we make of it. Not to have to tell a story by structure, upholding past visions of philosophy and struggle. It is not a brutal abandonment of form, but a restructuring through out deeply subjective selves.

"Soft gentle rebel, let the sun pierce the moments of spring"-Hawksley Workman.

I fight too hard, we fight forward too quickly and strongly, and misinterpret what it means to live our own worlds, to live outside the violent damands of this harsh and hardening society. Gentleness is not weakness, the sharp edges can be cooled and made smooth by rustling leaves. My body can heal if I let it breathe, and my emotions can thrive if I don't press too hard at them.

Trauma needs to be held gently and lovingly in our hands ( and we are all traumatized in this world). A kind touch that skin can settle into with a blessing.