The stories like a mouthful of feathers bursting at the inside of my lips: the dinner last night, the grant questions, the meditation, what I make of it. it’s time to bring this work into its body, the components, the sight of it, its soul, the question, the wondering in place, and the skeleton of it, the atoms of it, the wire, and how it touches its world, how it stands up in it, how without the world it has no form, that’s the position of the work, its physical stance. The glass and the light and the lenses and the whippersnapper electronics consultant. I love the younger adults, they are cram-crackling with passion and resources, and no idea they are too little to do all that, to look like that, and so, like lighting a cigarette in the blustery summer pummeling all the windows rolled down, they do it anyway. with an entirely new way of broadcasting the self, ins and outs, undreamt nuances, broader wider more interconnecting, and there’s no need, fellow old folks, no need to mourn the loss of the solo silence and space of the slow, pre-digital age. The forward looks great, so decide what’s necessary about the very nature of us and teach only that, by being it. because your good idea is so last week.