On the other side of art,
The pen slows down to honor the mastery of language.
To trust the ink.
Call it practice—
The mindless calling in of words,
letters slowly arriving with grace.
In this very slow wing
a patient honor to voice who enters faster than a hand—
Deliberate, precise, chosen.
A mind most full when it is empty.
Mindfulness in the mindlessness
The clenched hand relaxes. It allows…
Itself to dance between subject and object concept and context.
Like touching texture, I read them
Out of the running water
Seeing their color dripping.
Washing like the fingers, okay to touch
To wet a dried loneliness.
I didn’t almost cry at the art gallery.
The children weren’t there just to tug “let’s go”.
I felt through my eyes again.
Jealouslessly, carrying my cherished story bundled.
A 20 year old infant dream waiting for the childhood years to pass
Or the parenthood years. Neither—
I’ve known from the start my whole artists life is all wrapped, swaddled, in this.
The calligraphers know of water and ink,
Where the unexpected emerges from a dance with precision.
From the tunnel of detail held inside-out
eternal as the blackness of holes.
