Words fail me. Unpicking, deconstructing labels, views, grasping, proliferating. What am I left with? Knowingness, knowing that words fail me. What knows, what remains? Even that falls apart. Scary when grasping to having something to hold onto, a nice neat creative arty identity naming and labelling filing cabinet whatever is left of me can ponce around with. Surrender. Want to, but grasping soon sabotages that cute idea. OK fine. Here. Be. Whatever, anything is OK.
Neighbours’ roof tiles coming off. Moss growing under them. Instant proliferation of hope and fear and however am I going to manage on my own if the roof starts leaking and I have no money and it’s all too, too much. Yet there is space there. Both art and life point me to essence of too, too, much.
The energy of swirling thoughts proliferating, solidifying, loosening, turbulent, flux. At a distance seem more solid, close up just dots and dashes breaking down, dissolving. Here and not here.
It really doesn’t matter what you do, it’s the mind with which you do it, my teacher once said.