I hold the work like a drop of water on a leaf, bouncing and nearly overfull already by itself, never mind the river.

I’m ready to talk about what the light is doing in my studio experiments with people who view it as a scientific phenomenon, to hear about it from that perspective.  I purse my lips sideways about today being the day to write the letter to the spectrograph, er, spectography, er, spectroscopy people.  It just is time, despite my lack of desire to do it at this time, I now know the qualities of the True Voice of the Muse.  I quiet myself and lean in, listening,

‘time for the words,’ it tells me, ‘just ask what the words are, it doesn’t have to change your life.’  I can’t be sure Muse actually remembers or cares what can happen with live-in-the-moment curiosity.  I could get flung into completely new territories of exploration, with science measures and numerals, and laws of waiting around for readability to emerge from arresting, mysterious ways.  Muse gives me the eye by way of the drawing on Cholera’s book cover, and psychically reminds me, all the way through the worn, curling paperback gaze, that I’m being told to write a letter, not a story.

Anyway I intentionally already tricked myself, saving Other the trouble, by writing it in an earlier email to someone else.  I barely want to touch the world, for getting back to the optics, so much to prepare in the studio, the table with the lenses, the panels, and Malevich on the other side of the curtain, all the emails and how-do-you-do’s, plus amazing art I’ll see and more I’ll miss.  I’m counted only enough to be said to not be around much.  The best I can do is send back good pictures.

And then there is contemplating Universe work, I can’t treat anything besides physical fabrication with single-mindedness.  ‘I wuuuunder whhy,’ I say out loud in the room, in a spooky, no-duh voice.

How deep and wide cavernous and onward ever shiny newly familiar like only The Maker and Miles Davis can forever and ever with no note ever belabored be.  Don’t give it a future… run the light through the optics, so simple. name them to leave them open.  are we sure, moving forward, that we understand as much as we can about light?

Maybe it’s enough to just look at the blinking curser, like a lover in the doowar .  Dick is indeed so gnarky.  doowar is so much better than doorway. Maybe it’s enough to just look at the blinking curser, like a lover in the doorway. But like everything else, as soon as you even see it, it changes.

My hand goes up.  And I wait, and wait, aand wait percolates in my nearly five fingers waggling the progressive question that burns my rotator cuff and leaves me holding one hand up at the elbow with the other.