All I can do is silently

with the screen who prods me about days that didn’t happen in the writing world

‘’the unmanifested,” lows Pan, from behind the big black circle of Mythologist on the outside closet wall.  He has been hanging from his elbow prong inside for months, and I had begun to see him as rods of metal – I forgot how many, and went to count them, finding twenty-three, of course – Pan is 23 rods of steel.  he loves that I doubt myself and consider removing him from the closet just to turn him over in the sun for a recount.

I open my eyes into the work, into its definiteness, every wire is working. This material, the iron wire that enables, is as ephemeral as light, lens, and looker.  I wonder about tension and time, whether, in 50 years, even the well-preserved wire will still hold the same tension I cursive sculpt today.

Holding its bodiless arm out for me, Machine plays dance music so I can snap into my right mind in the studio room, seeing the work fearlesser.  and for this, one must tumble lightly through the many possibilities, the remotest quietest fearlings, like insurance, and certainty.

What is the essential question of each light emitter? Are emitters discrete stations, or is the entire piece Illuminated? How much Self is contrived into the piece? what if it’s none, is that achievable?  If each emitter is an individual question asker.  First question. You are here. the first question is a question of your presence of absence and a mirror, you are here. hall of mirrors entry,

Wiring not writing

my part to make objects,

from notes on a worn, velvety, over-folded, 8 ½ x 11 purse paper, where the piece in progress, waiting for its body, drew itself, center of the paper folds coincided with the center fulcrum of the piece. its double independent tensions, it won’t stop saying itself,

Magic or made made or  MagicMade.

The past is away, especially freakishly recently, humanity went phphphwelp, from the Industrial Age to the Digital Age, the people escorting Mind to Machine, rolling onto the internet, every aspect of life, wired, connected, reduced to image and writing, to ones and zeros, to sequences of ones and zeros, we live instaside the Digital,

becoming past, right before our unguessing eyes, like late model cars and the face of the self.  Handwriting.  Handwriting on paper.  The understanding of ourselves in time, informed by the evolution of photography, each former generation appearing to have less and less reality for any lens to detect, beginning with present photography, always seen as most realistic, outsparkling the orangeish newly recent Polaroid past, to the black and white, to the crackling silver gelatin faces of almost nowhere, who before that were merely imaginary, painted, drawn, written and recited.

Also lost:

Being Lost. And Paper Maps. Gonditty gone gone are the days of the private moment alone, barreling down the desert highway, the only human for miles. I’m glad I was there, one foot on either side of the Digital Transit, red flag day.  and the rest is a Reading. No one is less qualified than me to write about technology.  Hang on, Adobe wants to make changes and it needs my password, let me go help it.

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