11.25.00

Back from the giving, lying on the floor at home listening to Tim Booth. He dances spirals around the room. While away the rain came and it taps against thin and cracked windows. Not all have returned and these sounds are the only neighbors. An evening here passes not without candlelight and that is what gives the walls a yesteryear demeanor, not the walls themselves. These senses are held in esteem while lying on the floor contemplating the absence and the rite of return. The conclusion: They were one and the same. The life of the artist is yours if you have the courage to make it. The home sought is no mysterious treasure but steaded to your body. This room the rain uncovers is home yes, but it is just the place to turn inside out. And others, each have capacity for only one inside their skin; you are done mistaking them for home. Convention is for those with their backs turned toward fear and yours is no longer turned. All you have to do is step clear.

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