I settle into my perpetual hovering, 2-gauge hands twisted by three odd years of thimble-work, my fingers worsted and wraught into sharp needles, poised to be threaded, nails filed down to pinch corners of collars and such. Ha. If only... But the body doesn't respond & mutate so quickly, the body is a stubborn beast, i.e. a saviour, blessed bodee not adapting as fast as my mind would wish it. Thank god for that. My mind would create hell over and over again, only to drone bomb it with heaven, leaving nothing in its wake except a concept, flirting with its own edges, depressed that it doesn't leave room for anyone else to be alive, to be surprised. Alive, surprised.
I binge on dopamine as a kind of subconscious, intentional forcing function of temporary awakening, as relying on will itself is a fool's errand, “will” being 99% environment and 1% pathology. But the desire for regularity, for a consistent "I" among the millions of entities that call us to be the "I" they want, the "I" they project, means maybe freedom comes in the moments where we become so disgusted with ourselves that we break free from the construct completely. An ego death driven by YouTube feeds and TikTok dance competitions, an awakening brought on by the neon sun of LCD screens.
The soundtrack to my studio life right now is polyphonic flutes paired with Kelela and her onslaught of 90s normcore aspirational overseas hotel vibes, she's drinking and dancing close to the window but not close enough to be seen, I'm hovering and stitching close to the window but not close enough to be caught in the act of human-being-machine, without much of a sense of what that all could mean.
A clock, a sketch crumped up, two clasps with sharkfin ends, a scratched surface, an empty pen holder, the normal map of my hardworn leather writing desk, primary color with dark earth inclusions, wheel of time aka clock, mirror reflecting my screen tired eyes, negative space to hold more ideas
