See, Machine, how I have my apron on, waiting for wings of Hermes on my bare heels to start flapping? See how it’s also almost community lunch time? And that the shampoo has gone flat again, and how I know the next installation will be multi-tiered like the sculpture I am weaving?  I can be easy about it, and use what I already have, in essential ways, and rely on existing phenomena like gravity and made components.

I’m writing in a meditation now.  the machine’s rain sound set on repeat floats it, like  a cloud of steam kept in configuration,, ( and with the accidental double comma, Dick points out tha tnow we’r on the same page,  typos taking over as near palsy on the keyboard in service to  his slurred ecstatic declarations and bothersome visions of possible futures of the mind.)  Fortunately I’m typing from one of them, in an amazing age where I can nearly see him staring back at me through the one glass eye of the machine.

There is so much to do that a list is mandatory.  I’ve been procrastinating, wondering whether to make this list on paper or screen.  If on screen, will I be able to do it, or will it slip into poetry and cause me to miss important appointments?  Plus there could always be a solar flare.  Or paper? where I will really know a thing is done when I draw the ink line through the item that began as an urgent, undone scrawl? I stay in the writing and pretend the list from a dream, not letting the urgency make waves in the work.  I have to go to the paper, writing it on the screen has proven to be too difficult, like pricking my own finger for a drop of blood, even though I know it won’t be bad at all, I can’t seem to do it.

I go forward into what works, and not into what doesn’t. I don’t know what will be created. and back in the studio that means addressing the crinky sloppiness of the wire on the current installation, and beginning the uh er passage guides.  mind body and spirit.

I turn to face the big factory window, slow, and lined up like infinity mirrors to the winter light, showing a frozen aspect of the gaze, where it’s not a voice anymore, what I have to say. To send. To bring the wondering that never fails to mystify,  ?

I see them as line drawings, every line intentionally itself, at work in the structure. Directing the light. One little bitty experiment at a time. I ban myself from showing anything in the standard painting-on-the-wall zone – anything placed there must have over 50% of its meaningful self elsewhere.

Singing crystal bowls,  interfering sine waves, and sensors. Can I cause a light beam to be reflected through several optics and mirrors, until it illuminates a light sensor?  A light run. and sound is a beam as well. That’s right. and I wonder into this porcelain sculpted aspect I keep seeing in my mind’s persistent eye, and rejecting for its outlandish PIA rating.  and for the lightologists, questions about the focal and color effects of altering directionality of light that is passing through an opening.

Choose your center.

Be Love

Bring Peace

Machine tells me Walter Benjamin tied some of his best papers to birds, to carrier pigeons.

I see that my teachers line up like infinity mirrors

Meanwhile, the hours recede like daylight under the front door.

The meditation closes, and I get down to it anyway, out of the bodiless page, I get down to the making with the wire and the glass, the reflection and light.