pinch your morning

started painting again. white against would.
stroke by stroke
layers needed.
but they are easy now despite the convoluted yogic poses i must maintain on once couched dreams.

but i maintain the clean nightstand.  dust is a curious critter that loves the tops of our efforts. they wait for you to not notice much, it doesn't take much of a distraction and then they hurry back to their places of comfort.  they do not like to stay away long.  they love those tops.

i may be allergic; i may be asthmatical, but the dusting is my dance now.  it is no more effort than each breath.  and do i look to breath as a chore in my life?

notes to myself: self portrait somehow, two g letters, instructions to aunt about how to entice the binary giant, canvas for italian experiments, a couple of more layers - maybe one or two today, two or three tonight.


mornings are the reconciliation between two realities.  to states of being who, only for a pinch, are able to share with one another before they are on their own again.
some of those pinches can be rude, some clarifying, some exhilarating.  all, the sort where we turn around to find what we thought was there but where it has already become one.  and so we wait each morning for that rarefied pinch. those few moments where we see the back of our heads, the torrents of experience, the outsides of our insides.