In the room, the piece sets itself in motion. I see it easily, like it already was,

and float my idea of it away, paper on water, making only the next aspect.

It shows itself to me with tricks of time, and drawing lessons given by imaginary illustrated hands in midair.  It shows me something easy, that works.  I find a circle of light where I wouldn’t have expected, and trace its surprising source, another new feature.

the piece and the screen and the page and the screen and the wire and the wireless and the light, workity work in fourth gear, returned from a visit to the preparator’s shop, where I was invited to see a spectacular George Rickey sculpture presently being refurbished. It had six spinning hinges. How can the sculpture so very metal, with carefully cut sheets of brass, and hollow steel rods thin as feather spines, threaded and cold fabricated, whirl absolutely silently?  In a very detailed arrangement with the basic forces of nature:  gravity, momentum.

I walk back into my studio, tracers of the little sculpture eddying in my vision, and find the studio stage-like, my empty chair and rolling cart frozen in a half-formed scene,

I look at the sketch that muse says I am referring to for some aspects of the piece, but not others. I won’t be able to tell the difference except when I’m sculpting. I will only be able to tell it from the work.  ‘git to it,’ machine says.

Every element is working, every aspect of this piece has a function, there is no Sunday hat, sweet jesus.  allow beauty rather than manufacture it.  the next step shows itself to me bon vivant, through the first one.

Unhurried except as I say so myself, I’m given, not that I ever ask, I’m given the picture of premonition, the untaught, a priori, every way of knowing except linear and three dimensional and going one meager direction in time.  Dreaming myself, I think of every eye to be and how it’ll take me forever.

Why waste a breath making sense in small ways?

Does it hold its shape as an object?  made from the illumination and the shadows. And the shape of the caster/the physical body not necessarily made in its image.

I see it now. I see its arch through the ceiling, its wiry body, each mark as spare as the first, balanced pieces.  the work enters and I find a way, at long and so last, to still say by deciding, or by letting, invisible, weightless, creations undyed by reality.

Back to the object.  to this righteous thing.  Laptop will get cotton-screen. Its only hope  will be to keep current with the pictures so I can look at the piece that way, it wants to talk to me like that, not with words, but with sculpted shadows.

By stopping time the photograph does what the viewer cannot. reflection. I lean back in my swivel chair gazing into the first flank of the work, wondering what you would call it. better not to name it, like the epic.

Shift in perspective. A miracle is a shift in perspective.  The sculpted baffles, just hellfire like the bent brass sheeting hellfire on the george rickey sculpture.