I have no idea what it’s like to be a man in this world. Art, at it’s best, can help us see what is happening so it can be addressed. We can’t heal what we won’t acknowledge. I sincerely want to be part of the healing.
That’s how we find meaning: through playing, exploring, creating, loving, constructing and deconstructing. And also through listening, softening, deepening, and remaining open to possibility.
Purple can be the color of mourning
And the color of the irises that I once planted in my mother’s garden.
If Mr. Crouch can get an audience member to believe he had his arm raised the during an entire performance when he hadn’t once raised it, what can we convince ourselves?
Living inside the braided folds just for today.Tangled roots whisper; I can’t hear what they say. Memories are a splinter in the eye.Promises broken become calcified naïveté. Black Swan, slippery like Mercury—haunting.(A life lived well is not a parley.) Water ceasing to hydrate what is crumbling.Silt becomes an urn for ashes someday. Days are shorter…
I’m writing this to just get it out. To put it down. I found a smattering of random notes in my writing desk. There are pages and pages of observations. I’m putting them here because I think maybe there is a theme but I may only find it by sharing. I also don’t want to…