I’m not talking a butterfly’s beating wings here, rather a fleeting black and orange flash against a green or grey-scape. Its the space before your eyes I’m addressing. The bits of the world that introduce themselves to your bones before they come out as something maybe you could reach out for or bend your body against and temptation rears and it’s a synaptic fourth of July.
I’m trying to communicate something about thinking, but there is a space between my fingertips and my intentions. It happens.
Sometimes you find yourself in your body. And sometimes it doesn’t fit. Sometimes there’s a pocket of air between you and your skin and it strikes a match to fill that space with whatever liquid is at hand and it’s a tipsy slosh which feels great like rhythm and every movement has twice the joy for the moment. Or you may not make that little flame at all, maybe genius or depression has its guiding hand on your shoulder and that empty space is like an insulation.
In any case, there’s another breath. That exhalation is taking you – water creature – away from yourself.. I could go on, but the truth is that all of what I would write is already on the breeze.