Every Sentence Makes a Difference, 2002, HTML & text, dimensions variable
Every sentence makes a difference: I, II, III, IV, V
Again reminded at a moment the fine line sensed over which a glimpse of perfection the thin and porous line flips and flops each encounter up to the line to learn again all over as new the line exists the same but new changes and finding and crossing can't be willed or conjured or faked not enough to pay attention but to stop and see takes time. On a perfect warm late fall Sunday afternoon I am walking alone on the path between the lawn and the lake near the frisbee players towards the pink and blue sky from which the sun has just sunk then dropped leaves a settling glow on the water before bouncing up swirling back into the air and leaves and telephone lines and blue and pink smelling color.
Walking alone along by the lake in the middle of the city surrounded by the sounds of playing children, passing cars, airplanes, splashing birds, and Sunday walkers whose faces shine from the late light of the day that makes even the unhappiest at least appear if not actually smile in the air is warm and the light is a thing and the color is a thing to be in.
On the right children labor and laugh, pumping legs on swings before the watchfulness of adults and adorers and carressers and loving eyes while at left over shoulder a tight cluster of geese beam in over the water lifting heads and wings briefly a gestured hand futtering and bent to hover to land one after the other blops and plops feet first then tuck and coast.
Out to walk and only walk and find the ease to quiet to mute to stop to look to listen to feel the day that was merely day up to the moment walking and quiet and still and the thought that in my life all the noise all the things all the matter that don't matter doesn't matter be quiet and be quiet no matter a boundary found is crossed quite right here right here.
On a perfect warm late fall Sunday afternoon a moment to be still perfect not walking past it is here it is here it is always quiet and definite and be quiet can't be willed just walk not conjured just listen nor faked it instead finds you and you must find it back when you're at home in your body walking and moving and attending being quiet be quiet is quiet.
A pencil, you hold it, it fits, it's international. It can't be any other way it's the way it is. You turn your key and either it starts or it doesn't, it opens or it doesn't. On cue the ear hovering over the cereal bowl hears the cereal crackling its encounter with the milk. It's like a miracle, the glasses are wet then dry and become clean and clear and ready again.
Breath in and take a step, breath out and take a step. Just keep doing that over and over, Little Buddha, you think, make yourself smile. It becomes a real smile, but to hold it, no, that's not natural, and the smile flew off my face, stopped mid-air and turned back to look: you can't hold me, but I'll be back. The same smile over and over, reusable, take care, make it last, wear it well.
Lights turn red and green light show the traffic flows and the picture on the TV never ends it flows a light show. Like put the garbage out they pick it up, on time, it's a miracle. It's so hard we do all we can to make it easier. Does this sentence make a difference? And this one? But now this one, third time's a charm.
A pencil, you hold it, it fits, it's international or it can be any other way on the day you encounter it, it's up to you. The key bends, it's worn, it leaves the pocket dirty, it pokes the leg. On cue the ear hovering over the cereal bowl is wet from its encounters with the milk. Nothing to get too excited about, the glass has lip and fingerprints all over the outside, dried juice in the bottom, no one wants to touch it.
Breath in and take a step over a boundary, and do it again and again over and over. That's life at a minimum. Keep it up, you no buddha, you. You want to smile when you think of yourself, and you want that smile to span from here to way over there and be believable. Trust it, it doesn't leave, it will always be here when you want to wear it. A real smile doesn't wear out it's welcome. A fake one hurts.
Light blinking yellow proceeds with caution proceeds blinking an endless story. Trash talk, I don't have to take that, but I turn the other cheek. Every sentence makes a difference, including the ones erased to arrive at those that remain. Crossing many lines to find a place to stand everytime's a charm, the smile walks on green, a smile is a pencil, international.
III. One thin metal
One thin metal door at the side holds a glass panel holds it all in tight an inside keeps outside there outside, outside streaming passing is gray pebbles and black smudgy layered and white zips one after another, a thin metal door with a hollow chamber has how many collapses possible, how many lives, a thin metal line drawing a line between the moving inside stillness and the passing outside blur.
A long thin metal ribbon anchored on each side seen from a distance shines in the afternoon sun spanning a vast tidal reach anchored at each end, each side either a beginning or an end, a length to cross over, a passage, a conveyor from one place to another.
Metal shines, reflects, bends and folds, hollow metal chamber panel coated in a thin layer of color, a dull roar, a barrier.
One line runs in two directions, depending where you start, flexible responding supports reactive to the environment in which it stands.
Thin shell skin membrane, a thick hollow vertical line, buffer for the body moving at a speed measured by its stillness and proximity to the rider, a hum roar where the elbow rests, something to lean on look over to see through, holding in move a passage.
Metal ribbon connects one point to another, from to, a transtion, crossing a boundary, reinforced, begins arcing up over arcing down ending, look ahead then down, look up into, across and from out to, over a beyond, conveyor of peers, a single path, an organism with a vein with cells shuffling from one side to the other, each cell its own boundary, a container, a skin holding a skin.
One, I see it and say, it speaks to me, in a language I know but can't identify, it speaks to me, I know it, from external to internal, for generations we attempt it will continue to attempt to explain, not fully successful we can line them up end to end, everyone having a say each in our own language, each having to explain why we all continue to explain because it speaks to me, and I know it, and it is mine and I will tell you about it, and you can tell me about your's, and I will remake it in my language, and it will be new.
Two is a relationship, bounce between the two, a binary, an external language to struggle to interpret, restless and endless, hectic echoing stereo, one to one then to one and back, balanced by shape but imbalanced by weight and color and texture, light and shape and placement, and between the two, I discern a boundary, there is this side and that side, back forth.
Three is beyond two, binocular become triocular, unnatural but less urgent, a relationship of two, and then another two and one more, variations, locking into and out of trianglation, non-static divisions.
A frame says this one, outlined and held, straight and neat, nothing beyond the confines, what is seen is contained, a window, an object, a face, a portal, top, bottom, left and right.
Being a two each commands attention, a pair is united, but one is always against the other, even if identical they are unequal, always something that shifts the balance whether it is left or right, high or low, this way or that, a swipe makes one and a scrub makes two, a mark remains, you can't help looking from one to the other and back, simple things move us, and it is barely named.
Consider that one and two are three, from static to binary is a transition to a stability in which to begin a triangle has three divisions, one point separate from each of the others, and then three more divisions, one for each one against the other two, or two against the one, constantly shifting allegiances of one and one over another, a continually reconfiguring counter-balancing of alliances in which stability teeters and recovers from a resonant tension rapidly wavering in constant subtle movement a harmonic that speaks a language of form that words don't can't match.
Being alone is not a problem to be alone. A penny on a table, sitting, waiting, nothing, is flat and round, metallic and quiet, being itself, alone and of value, even if small. It makes noise, it shouts out a warm acidic copper color, the stamped profile self-contained and powerful. It rolls, it rings, it drones, it clinks. Many little pennies alone could be many together. But take just one. It cannot be anything more than absolutely itself, which is all that can be asked, which is perfect.
Walking one step up from the street to the sidewalk, a single stride, the body straddles the red of the curb, splitting in two momentarily, one side forward, one side to the rear, a red horizontal line makes a neat division a line between the legs in it's brightness and thickness, flickering a feeling of being both here and there, a boundary that when crossed splits the body, but once crossed the single split stride recedes into the past as the body reunites into a present whole.
Voice speaks isn't spoken in aloneness but won't stop singing, won't stop reciting, won't stop rehearsing recipes and telephone calls, won't stop visualizing typing in alternating left and right hands, won't stop counting and determining the last word, won't stop the tracing of maps, spelling, dialog, won't stop imagining that smile, that look, that nod, the way the hair fell just so, the reach, a gesture that is an ultimate exhale, knocking the breath right out, a recount so exhausting, so roaring loud that the voice calls for quiet, it screams, it says ready to be alone, it's OK, be at home.
Being alone is being alone with the smell of a warm worn brown color that has been in the bottom of a pocket and emerges enveloped in lint. The fingers separate the object and lint are one hard and one soft. Together something, separate something else, each different selves, values so low so hard to see, the value of holding it and acknowledging its value. It cannot be anything more than absolutely itself, which is all that can be asked, which is perfect
Walking one step across any surface, flat, horzontal, a plane, if you want, what is flat pavement concrete gravel sand paint pebbles dirt all material ready to levitate to the walker's senses a boundary ready to perceive a flat material can levitate before the eyes within and through the eyes close your eyes quiet, not tight but squinty, breath breathe, and pay attention as the ground around you raises to meet the sky it happens.
Voice speaking continually is the voice telling you on you that doesn't want to be alone is to be afraid, let the voice go, it will pass, it wants to tell important things efficient as it gets tired of you, too, hear those, then be happy be quiet.