ramblings
there was a pull to do more. a realization of the action. to measure against the comfort of the sand against my legs. a resetting of a scene to find the comfort of sleep and touch. or at least its essence. a comfort in doing nothing because this heart binds in promise. a cut as a contractual act, a deed to land. the texture of that same cut as if touching the sounds of a breath. willing clay, dirt, dust to life in a gust of wind. a cut of the land demarcating a future terrain, a negotiation of what exists and what will. we played cartographers, urban planners, explorers, using crude maps and diagrams, imperfect measurements, the sun beading the sweat of our brows. i could have done more, but the time wasn’t enough. i wept wanting to stay a sense of guilt or unworthiness. a these perimeters were marked in pink, the sand inside looked different. a space separated and carved, a (holy) site for future objects. if to dig, to carve and to tumble are to love, then may we gather the tools and the stones for each other. let us wrap ourselves in these lines letting them give our dust a little bit more breath, slowly, as the waves reach the height of our hips, pulling our feet down the wet sand, sinking into what might be, even for a brief moment, of eyes gazing back without fear of salt.
a sudden turn reveals the reflection of the waxing moon in the sky, floating like always, maps above our heads.
studio
images are made with a cartographer’s pencil and a songstress’ incantation. to walk in an suddenly indulge in the enveloping and invisible vibrations. the graphite pushing down against the valleys of our feet, tracing the steps of forgotten choreographies, made alive again. overlapping drawings, as lines intersect with one another, catching the attention of trails and pathways, of the points where land meets ocean. the embellishing by the mapmaker, to give narrative to an objective exercise of recording the ground we walk on, a dirt that moves and quakes. her melodies float through seashells on the beach, echoing the ocean, echoing the mystics, echoing all the sounds every made before. a conundrum of infinity. impressions of song carved over the inner walls of these chambers. to look across and feel the need to share a sway; primal. how many images are not made through our lives? artworks capture a miniscule portion of beauty, yet they amplify it in other ways. a concentration, a beam, lasers touching metals. i would love to see the linework of my movement across the dancefloor, shadows being traced in real time, overlaid, one on top of another. making maps. looking up again and smiling.
shoutouts
5/22 - fresh out the mikveh!
scraps
