Returned to the city, I drive like a mayfly, like a gangsta, under the dark curving Chinatown viaducts and out Cermak in my little bitty city car that doesn’t weigh anything, and folds flat like a paper takeout box for parking.  thinking about making art objects, about place.  we always make our highest desire, we don’t always look that desire, the spark of creation, in the eye.  it makes itself with two sides.  each with easy, industrial parking.

The volatile orange streak of an asteroid grazing the outer dome of the city night reminds me with a fiery wink what I said I was doing in the first place.  I decide to write it, Tami style, by hand, old school, which nearly gives me palpitations because of the conjuring effect of ink on paper.

I don’t think I can do the inventory off paper. I have to draw circles, and not just theoretical circles, I need to feel the pen biting the paper, getting down to business.  I will draw a large one for Studio, with more labeled balloons inside it, all connected with long drawn lines that criss-cross in strange arrangements, and howl in the wind like strings.  Then there will be another, larger circle for Admin, equipped with buzzers and timers.

Every time I meet the mirror, or other warbling thing, I become hopelessly sleepy like I’ve been pricked spellbound, and fall into a continuous dream, it’s a search, most recently in gravity-defying barn lofts that I have irrationally desired to wrap with zinc sheeting, folding along the beams and edges, looking forward to the way the soft metal sheet will yield to the galvanized roofing nails I’d be using, because of course it’s me making it.  I can’t pretend I didn’t hear the words, in my sleep, coming from outside the dream.

Where to weight the words, the bolts and arms and gears under them, the soft mechanical creaking, the three, the fifteen words that paint this moment

into the untouchable, cryptoshimmering past,

if I’m lucky and don’t ruin the work with my ideas.

Nothing is as teeming as it is purported to be. It’s 1, 0, and the dyad. The making is realer than the made, which is trapped half-away from Now like a reflection, or a ghost. I get ready to draw circles and make lists,

i think of runs for light, like marble runs, made of lenses and mirrors,

and the camera’s one-eyed ability to record time

 “There was nothing in atoms per se that predicts chemical compounding. There is nothing in chemical compounds per se that predicts biological protoplasm. There is nothing in biological protoplasm per se that predicts camel and palm tree and the respiratory exchange of gases between the mammals and the vegetation. In fact you discover that the larger complex of Universe is never being predicted by the lesser.” – Buckminster Fuller