I can count seconds by heart with accuracy, but the hour needle on the clock stabs my body at every click.
I was rushed to be born, I was rushed to grow up, I was rushed to create. In fact, no body's rushing me at all except for the one named Me.
A studio visit was cancelled this morning. I am at joy finishing up all things on hold. At the moment of this unplanned void, I was so moved to have a 2-hour window that I was almost in tears.
Quiet like the moss grown on tree trunks, grateful like the lizard who found the prickly pears after a 3 day long search, I face this pool of fresh water among the sand dunes, not knowing what to express on my face.
Thank you thank you my flying pigs!! It is when I let things come to me that I was given what I really need.
And I want to tell you that there is a certain type of art which makes me sweat. Skills flow freely as if one's walking in the breeze, concept realized naturally like one's memory; I saw Gregory Euclide's show at Black Market last Saturday. It is so comfortably made and well installed that I feel as easy as being in a jazz bar. It is beautiful, and I sweat because I want to be as naturally good as Gregory's works.
A phone call came, I will have 2 more hours void today. Perhaps too much void is not healthy to a person who has messy relationship with time.