If I take off my readers, can I write? A disjuncture between life and writing, or that I want to hide? Without seeing the keys or the screen. Write blind. Behind where words form. The words that shape reality even as I speak them.
Glide through the world of words with a dancer's ease. My body is a word, a gesture, a line scrawling across the horizon of time.
Am I purple, or aubergine? A curve of a back before a computer, hitting keys I can't see?
And how many mistakes before we get it right?
And how many times are the crystal glasses broken before we can---drink, see, touch?
It's cyclical, the years go on, some good, some bad. There is no will to it. Whatever you want to happen happens; you are a consequence of your past; and each day is a surprise thrown up by the fates of fortune.
When I sat down to write I knew nothing,
and less now.
Sheath of feeling. Words groping to touch air.
Woman with Flowers 7.1
(7th sketch in series, first iteration of this one) Woman with Flowers Flowers, props upholding the woman. The flowers, fragrant, imaginar...
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