I am above the earth now. I am no longer upright, to be knocked against and damaged…Out of me now my mind can pour.Virginia Woolf
When there is disconnection, disquiet surfaces. Like a needling in the chest. If shared, it can become a freedom to know another’s trouble, for that space in-between can become the agent of relationship. Like here. On a night in a city dying with a virus, a dissonance of both light and panic opened my psyche to the risk of creation. Should it be a risk? To create? Yes/no. That was a time ago. Today, the man I used to know, came to stand on my floor with the January winter out the window, his face like grief, the labor of his work shadowing his jaw, cheeks, nose. As a picture can, let the camera move wide angles to the woman, her/me, watching him from the past, in an occasion of withdrawal from my/her once-ago-life into a future, new, and all around indeterminate. She remembers the grass she studied when she was a child, inquisitive for what she might find inside its blade or sheath. Maybe awn. A desire to know. A brilliant participation in the field next to the blue water of Missouri. Then. Camera cuts to a different man sitting on a city couch, same sick city, and what did he propose to her about the body, her body, rubbed and siphoned to beauty, carrying thought and attention?