Sinking

Free fall into space
a drop from place to no place
The mind gasps to retrieve some fixed point
the sound of my mind wakes me and stops
the pull of the abyss
A void of silence and no sense
the panic of nothing

I have had this dream before. I think when my body gives up all its strength in one big step there is no time for the mind to make up a story. I fall into the place that is the gap between feeling and sense, a synaptic delay between mind and body. This science comforts me and I am asleep again.

This morning, I shared Que es La Vida with the young girl from Puerto Rico. She knew it well and we remembered it together in bits of Spanish. It is a bond of voices that have been silenced into dreams of something else.

I wonder about my decision to re-enter a classroom, the incumbent mess of materials, the charge of the chaos in the creative process. I see the solitary journey of the studio artist and the private act of creativity to be somewhat at odds with the party style jumble of art education.
As a young child, I was unable to make art in the classroom. It was too scary and noisy. I did not like the attention of others in my place of making and journey. I did not make images to please anyone. I made images to create another place, different from myself. The recognition by others seemed to alter or diminish my voice as if it were somehow run over by the voices of teachers and other students.

I was proofing my thesis in the car, listening to Hardy, when Susan pulled up. I was crying as I read about the creation of In Situ, an installation piece that is the archaeological remains of my journey for identity in place. I wonder if boiled adder fat can draw the poison out?

I must finish my thesis and get that printed and put it away. It changes every time I read it. I think the beauty of handing it over to a proof reader is that they are only looking for errors. I am looking for clarity. That is different. It must come to a point of rest in this time and place.