imagine you’re in a dance.
would you count the footsteps?
would you tell your partner how to do it?
or does your heart tell your feet
where to go?
when you see a great painting, when
you feel it in your viscera, is it the paint
you are responding to?
is it the mind of the painter?
or is it what’s evoked beyond paint
and painter?
in a forest, in a stand of countless trees, on a clouded afternoon with no one near, what is greater, your sense of being you and lost,
or standing among giants?
out of control.
for writers—and it takes a long while—you learn to shift your allegiance from language and control and showing off and longing to be known, to serving the powers that move through you.
nothing and everything counts. nothing and everything tell you to proceed without assurances.
