Updated: Apr 6
Words mean nothing if they can’t be lifted off the page. Books must be deconstructed and disseminated into the material world. In a world of abstraction and disembodiment, I offer you a book of permeable parameters.
I am new in the morning, knowing I am unworthy to write the world which sacreds its way into a sea of time-malaised eternity. I write anyway.
Because I am equally unworthy of the smoke-soaked skies out the window, the earth choking on burnt tree limbs from wildfires in California and Oregon. I am equally unworthy of the cat who has pounced onto my lap, licking my toes methodically and purring.
We are worthy of nothing: the tragic or miraculous, the evil or mundane. The world leaps on anyway, leaps into the darkness we call “now” and the brightness we call “then,” spiraling blindly into we know not what, you and I trailing behind, wide-eyed.
Where do we travel from here? Your words awaken the future. As do mine. The future requires you, in all your imperfection of sight, to listen. To hear. To write (or dance, color, sing) the world into being. There will be no more waiting.
At my feet, galaxies gather, petitioning stories. Trees sift wind between leaves, knowing things. Mountains heap before me, blinking. Some day, the weight of these words will crush the earth. Unsounded songs will sing, unseen colors will pigment skies and trees.
But I begin gently, so ease your ears close and sink into the song beneath speech.