Broken glass, Machine has to mention it, I have an exquisitely busted magnifying dome, shards that look like clumps of glassine, holding the light so tight it turns whiter, like in a diamond. The glass is so dense that the breaking caused a fish scale surface pattern that iridesceses in sidelight.  I see the broken shards woven between layers of aluminum mesh, or some other laborious nod to the hushed material reverence of the craft world.

Today is about continuing to let the room be made.  There has to be a rule about silly fooling with the lights.  15 minutes per composition, if I can’t get it in that time I’m constipated.  Machine, you can be the timer.  You have to help, it’s a time pit out there on the floor.

The sphere that made Om without me even recognizing it, I had to ask someone what it was, this symbol on yoga pants and window stickers on the enormous, glinting, doubletall SUV’s in the Starbucks drive thru lane.  ‘Oh yeah,’ my actually Hindu friend said, ‘that’s Om.’  I felt the emptiness seeping in through the hinges of my jaw, of course it is, thank you.  that sphere.  I look for the center of the room in my mind’s eye, are there scrim panels in the center air space?  I look for them like past life memories, changing, disappearing and questionable. And beckoning.

Hang one thing at a time, that’s the way.  Nothing to do but do.