Something happens on the other side of art,
When the pen slows down to honor the mastery of language.
A kind of trust of the ink.
Call it practice—
The mindless calling in of words,
letters slowly arriving with grace.
In this very slow wing
Trust these words of mind who come faster than a hand—
Deliberate, precise, chosen.
As if the mind is most full when it is empty.
Mindfulness in the mindlessness
The clenched hand relaxes. It allows…
Itself to dance between subject and object concept and context.
Like touching texture, I read them
Out of the running water
Seeing their color dripping.
Washing like the fingers of the hand, okay to touch,
To wet a dried loneliness.
I didn’t almost cry at the art gallery.
They weren’t there to tug “let’s go”.
I felt through my eyes again.
No jealousy, only the cherished story I carried around bundled.
A 20 year old infant dream waiting for the childhood years to pass
Or the parenthood years. Neither—
I’ve known from the start my whole artists life is all wrapped, swaddled, in this.
The calligraphers know of water and ink,
Where the unexpected emerges from the dance of precision.
From the tunnel of detail held inside-out
eternal as the blackness of holes.