Food Chain

The extra trip to town, this time, to make one last pick-up for the fund-raiser auction, with which I have nothing more to do except for the clean-up on Tuesday. Pick-up was on the fifth floor of an apartment building and accessed from a balcony walk-way. I now officially suffer from vertigo, and it's getting worse. Falling, twice, into a safety harness from height, has totally eroded my previous desire to be as high as possible. I'm ok with a six foot ladder, that's it. And I used to the free-climb rock walls. You really don't know what life will throw at you. Lunch with D at the museum, to discuss strategy for the upcoming workload. We originate this next show, it's ours, it's Sara's, and this is what it's like, going out on the edge, saying that this is a show. Life is theater. I have a serious argument with Plato here, I think artists are shaman, that they work around the edge to enlarge human experience. I live a life at the fringe because I want to, it continues to interest me, engages me; it's a ego-centric existence, the internal dialog, the voices, but constant contact with the natural world gets me out of myself. I like the current mix, it suits me now, and that's the best that can be said. It suits me now. We change. The world changes. People now drive, talk on the phone, and drink coffee at the same time. There it is: time. When I watch the fox, or a crow, or the napp over the spill-way (a flowing blanket of water) my mind is in that other place and time disappears. In the moment. One hand clapping. Ohio Zen. Pig-weed, a wild mustard I think, has spread pollen across Turkey Lake, it swirls in patterns I don't understand, I make another note to study hydraulics; maybe I'll start tomorrow, drainage is all. Your hollow is all. News is fiction. We live this. You and me, babe.