I cannot depict what I see in my head with any accuracy but I cannot stop trying to find the metaphors. The randomness of existence is the only rule left. And that used to sound demoralizing to me but not anymore because everything I experience seems beyond my capacity. Everything slips through my skin. Nothing is contained. Gravity is the only temporal bond. Movement is existence. Light splatters on wet ground. The ground becomes the light. The light brings the darkness yet darkness is not mere emptiness. Emptiness is not alone. Emptiness has the greatest potential as that from which any patterns emerge. Each image can only be an iteration of something never whole or complete. What is caught or exposed (for lack of a better word) between these iterations is the point of stringing them together. The wall space is the wet plate.
the outer ring
is the center
hairs brush over the horizon the ring hovers at a calm distance until the terrain draws it closer the ring glows brighter and warmer hairs standing on end until the ring becomes
Whenever I’m making something with meaning, I think of it as sitting on the bank of the archetypal river. All I have to do is patiently wait and watch the flow until something floats by and then either I collect it or let it go.