The numerous aspects.  The fact that, really, not one anything is properly described by language.  The myriad facts of the eyeball: shark and whale eyes.  Universe says, !Cut Through Red Tape Here! and direct-wires me every time.  Thank you Universe for the hard working artists of the world. The opening of shark’s eye, a uniform oval hole seemingly punched out of the flesh and healed, and behind it the flat oil slick eye with the fine oval thread of undersea opalescence in every eye, a little different the oval wavering longer or rounder or washed slightly out of shape, the fish seeing never sleeping always looking shark eye, like a smooth black tongue at the keyhole.

The light through the glass, through the lenses. The whale eye.  The paintings and the photo of the whale eye and the way the shadows and paint and gr gr gr graphite will fall on the wall especially if the optics are wired in as well as interruptions, eh?  Such antics may easily be had with LEDs.   But wait there’s more, it don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing.  we are somehow moving, machine, the sculpture is moving we are it, i see again the paper towel and the water and the open drain.  The view from whence the droplet falls.

‘Well,’ I say to myself, a little loud, emphasizing the echo that outlines my solitude, ‘well, are you ever ever ever going to ask yourself what you want to do with the writing?  if you want to try to make something out of it, to share?’

Then it’s like before the meeting is called to order in my head, and after a few minutes  listening, staring at words I’ve already written, and pulling at the fine hairs of my forearm, the last voice to settle into silence says, ‘it already is what it is, maybe not where, but what it is.’  You might be right, I tell it, you might be right.

Regard.  Regarder.  Isn’t it the regard that lends the unity?  I think about sweeping my mind clean again, and leaving it out to dry in the bright bright western sun of a studio afternoon.  What would I put together?  I would wonder what it would look like if I put the whole of the activity of the practice up for regard.  How I would present such a thing.

I will look at the outline of  this documentary maker’s presentation, what he’s making and who sees it and what does it raise and leave the viewer with, he says, ‘here is what I want to give you the viewer I want to give you awe, here’s why awe is good for you,’ so simple, and happy-brained.  I have wound my same up in 250 pieces of handmade waxed paper,

and, in more proliferate iterations, reflected it backwards through a gallery window at night,

where hundreds of people saw it and dozens may have noticed.  Sometimes I think, I’ll just publish it all, why not.  I wouldn’t be able to steer it or conduct it or teach it to synchronize swim so that anyone could find it anyway.  I’m talking about a much more metaphorical publishing, albeit real, like how the Japanese leave one plum on the tree for the birds over winter.  a gesture, remember, Milan Kundera?   is it just the writing?  in service to the sculpture which is asking so much now, asking for so much, asking that I look.  I would want to know what the practices are in the making of these marvelously crafted thought-works.  Especially if it’s not merely living healthily in unbridled personal work time.  like the kind I am having this afternoon, my arms raised from my sides like airplane wings, stepping one foot carefully in front of the other, along the beam over a day in which I might have done something else, but to what end, I don’t have time to wonder.

The hell.  Now we have a new place, and three worthy shows.  And wtf what’s the push into the writing at this time, when there are shelves to be erected, lenses to be mounted, have I descended into slovenliness?  Or am I still channeling?  I can never tell, sometimes until years later.  It’s always a bucket of cold water in the guts to find a beloved old project vapid, or a shirked one riveting.  Kerplunk, that’s what my old buddy M would type.  Is there really even any other way?  And for reals, have I not demonstrated that I am not going to go to any other sort of trouble about the writing.  I am I don’t think not going to do a lot of things that I could do if I tried and trued and bled and died and let go and fell into lucky publishing holes in the ground.  My same old buddy actually did say, and I need to remember clearly the few things I heard him say, he said to let go of the idea of brave.  Now, you know that I know that you know about who’s brave and who ain’t.  It will take me a week to figure out how to even make the blog, even though I have been told and taught, when you are sloughing blogs everywhere you go.  I’ll be over here making one out of foam core board and wood glue, bent wires and brown kraft paper.  I will work really, really hard for it to have one page like a postcard and be wrong-sized for the screens of the modern world.  It will not be UL listed, or compatible with anything, I won’t be able to explain myself, and god only knows what sort of havoc will be wrought in my personal life when the inside goes on view.  Needless to say I won’t be able to tell anyone or talk about it with anyone.  I will prefer to have absolutely no idea, for it to be no different than not publishing that I really have to wonder, why publish it??  WHY THE VOICE?!  What does it want to say?  I ask it again and again and all these years the only thing I’ve learned is how to reset it.

The whale eyes, the shark eyes, the divided light of my Mana studio windows, the amplituhedron, particularly that it shows locality/proximity and unitarity, the idea that of all possibilities, the number that will manifest is one.  My poor brain, it needs toning.  Ginseng, perhaps, or cold-to-hot saunas, and sudoku.  The emptying of Pandora, and the refilling, when we hear Lyle Lovett again after many years, and the Sundays, and cranberries and bjork and suzanne vega, patti griffin, and of course, rickie lee jones, who’d a-suspected she’d be the queen in hindsight, the queen alongside queen joni who just is there, making the world what it is.  And annie lennox who always seemed the woman, looking like a fresh faced little girl on the cover of Medusa.  You know who is missing and should be there is Grace slick and also patti smith.  As long as we are talking about female powerhouses, the list is much longer than this.  But there is oh so much drivel, Machine, Pandora, reader of mine, there is so much drivel in the female vocalist pop rock genre that I dare not tell Pandora to have at it with my careful, deliberate short list of female muses to me.  and not only musicians, Carol Burnett, and Gilda Radnor, Lee Bontecou, Beatrice Wood, these ladies already know it.  all of ‘em, Indie dance stations.   I could never expect a machine to tell the difference.  Pandora is for example almost but not quite screwing up taking liberties with really dumb music just because it’s fruit striped.  And there were and are women out there making art with their lifeblood, Eva Hesse, Marina Abramovic, Yoko for reals Ono, do you think he’d see it through an airhead?, so yes yes I love women.  I don’t talk about them so much, nor they me, but we are standing all together behind one another silently.  Florence, making it right, with the Machine.  And I’m not telling Pandora about her but Madonna is fiercely respected, even though her music isn’t home to me.  Lucille Ball, for god’s sake. Emmylou.  Erma Bombeck, and think of all the women I don’t know about, showing the way, like lovers and grandmothers.  So after coming up on 4 years of writing and barely ever mentioning women, let me say this peace now, amen for the women.

Radical Openness.  From which, you note right up front, there is no way out.  As if I hadn’t noticed by now.  Well.  alright.  I wish my blackout curtains were already up.  I’d be in the lenses now, even though I forgot to talk about them with Derek because we were talking about kinetic machines instead, and like a sight-hound it was all I could think, the motors moving the screen a little and therefore the shadow a lot, iterations all of it on the turning shaft, the kitchenaid, the car, the drill and the mill.  I don’t suppose I was born to be succinct of word, like mr silva, who is to be revered for keeping hold of the thread long enough to tell it.  My sort of succinct does not deal in time or linear progression.

Radical Openness.