i read a lot, sometimes i get lost in it, submerged, mindfully less than capacity. my eyes hurt from staring at the screen. my finger has stopped bleeding, stopped feeling so numb, but i'm still reluctant to leave the bandage behind. it's a symbol. why don't oboe players constantly cut themselves with reed knives?
people i know are traversing the globe, playing with good people. ô when?
art happens when you're convinced you're doing it. tadeu coelho wasn't far off the mark.
words for thought:
Poetry is white[trans. Jodey Bateman]
it comes dripping out of the water
it gets wrinkled and piles up
We have to stretch out the skin of this planet
We have to iron the sea in its whiteness
The hands go on and on
and so things are made
the hands make the world every day
fire unites with steel
linen, canvas and calico come back
from combat in the laundry
and from the light a dove is born
purity comes back from the soap suds.
richard will find something on long island. sean is in love. clio is in germany.
i am here, now, and it is enough.
