(thursday 16March, 2017 – transcribed from notebook)
“Be still” she said
Be still said they
there’s nothing to do but work today.
“Was it work?” she asked. “It was private. It was deep play” (Bhanu Kapil in an email to me)
What is work to me?
dance composition improvisation physical practice bodywork writing painting thinking moving
the overwhelming amount of admin computer stuffs i (don’t) do to do my work is not.
I read otu to ready otu. (typo left intact)
time in nuggets chopping out
in the dirt; it’s all the same.
more than healing goes.
I paint the wall. i don’t know why until it’s done.
I dream and it is the day, up at 4a.
I paint more of the wall. it’s the first time in 5 months (i add the light frame and second layer of teal), I find out after that it is the first day.
How is it that I intuit so clearly and have no common sense? I write looking in the mirror [only when i type do i need to look at my fingers, if i’m writing by hand in a book i can look about].
I see myself
and knock neck hurting
sitting not so much in my body as underneath it.
As if it weighs on me.
Someone leaves a mess, I clean it up.
I spend time thinking I’m resentful for it but actually it isn’t about me.
So why feel upset?
I treat people as I do. I see things as I do. I love who I do. I live as I do. So why be bothered? “They are not my feelings anyway” – Jerry West (2013 ish?)
Now put self in the world.
Watch your words as you write.
I will watch the words as I write.
I don’t want to go out
But if you stay here no one will receive you.
No, you must go.
I know I don’t have the strength right now to get out of this bed, to walk down the stairs, to put coats on as I go and wrap my head tight. But if I don’t go I will not have feet on the ground today.
you need to walk.
I did not go outside but let the sun shine in, warm in layers into my home and onto my skin.
so much love and still much to be done. well- worn are the paths of worry and doubt. Knockdown the dead branches, turnover stomped ground. Dig into the Earth while you turn shouting out – for goodness for peace, for hatred’s release..
See shadow? It writes here under the sun.
On glasspanes of undoing that’s long since begun.
She sits. It is me, all beauty and light.
Locked in caves of moons shining quietbright on the night.
photo: blur detail, untitled wip (not part of the painted wall)