Endless possibilities are.
Racing past each blank moment. Each idea waving wildly to entice. And most, in turn, being loudly thwarted. Each then retreats, lowering itself into the pit of ideas that lie-in-wait, until someones comes along to animate.
For the moment, I am off deadline. Exhaustion creeps in when I sit. It's then I feel everything is happening in the next room. There is a fuzzy wall between my energy and the thing that is happening in front of me. Things are happening in front on me. I simply step into it. I am reminded of Nijinsky saying - when asked why his grand jete looks like levitation - I simply step up and stand in the air.
I don’t really remember if I’ve ever believed in the notion that we are all in the same boat - perhaps in the same slip stream. Mostly, I am alone paddling, constantly going back for a second look at my dreaded conversation remorse, avoiding the unpredictable waterfall or spinning around and around just for fun.
The magicians silk is draped over the prize - covering what we think we know. But when revealed we are sorry we ever tried.
Art is the sensuous expression of ideas. Hegel said something close.
