Scattered Work
Now I’ve got to shed this other work. It’s become too disconnected from the life that I find myself living, too intertwined with old battles, battles won and battles lost, even battles unresolved, hovering in the air perpetually awaiting a judgment that will never come. I say this knowing that breaks are never clean. That a skin never fully sheds its wine, and eventually becomes a map of escape and return.
This is the form of the new work. It is a scattered work. With luck, it will be a bit closer to breath than to ink. We have yet to see. It may become as calcified, as distant and burdened as what came before it. Scattering may be nothing more than a gimmick, an irrelevant gesture resting precariously on idealism, calling on the future to absolve us of the present.
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Making changes, I’m clear on why this happens. Looking forward to changing with you.
I like the Christmas decorations–and am impressed with your timing!