I come in again, because it’s never over, there’s Newton and Buckminster, why I should expect myself to read them any faster, let them weave together in my mind, that’s my aspect, as we all are, aspects, possibilities.  I look at Newton’s handwriting, and I know because I saw the circumference of dark and light that I had been where I wasn’t sure I was in fortune meditation, except how I had gotten there sweating and a little hurried despite knowing better.

And now Muse has me unpacking boxes of art – mine and others’ – that I haven’t opened in a decade, my own personal collection that has been boxed since just after the second stripe appeared through the little plastic window.  There’s Sergei’s pencil and charcoal drawing of the wasp that stung me in the crook of the arm one night, and he hopped up and ran to get a jar to freeze the wasp in so he could draw it intact the next day. compassion is a problem for all artists.  My arm had closed around the wasp in reflex, and I could feel all six of his legs pushing at the thin skin of my inner elbow, I unhinged the grip and Sergei caught the wasp in the jar, and put it in the freezer.  The next day he tinted the pencil drawn legs with yellow, and drew them banded and articulated the way they are, with tiny pores and ridges we refuse to see, instead imagining insect limbs to be black and cylindrical. But they are like the bones of your lover’s touch as well, flared and perfectly matched.

Drawings of wasps and owls, look how far we have come since the cave drawings in terms of representing perspective, and think how we pass the accumulated mind forward.  I think how every fortune I told was also none other than my own.

Machine suggests I’ve crashed, and it’s true, I will limp from project to project for a week, sleeping between them

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