This is a picture of me. They all are. I can’t make a picture, I can’t, that isn’t of me. I can’t say anything that isn’t about me. Everything I say is about me. Saying it sounds so endlessly self centered an..d there we are—oops, I am. Sorry. I am always in the midst of myself. Everything I say to you is part of this story I make amke kmae emak about me. But I make art, photos, bang drums to find another language so we can, you know, talk about you for a minute. This rhythm, this powm/poem/mope can be about you, or maybe this photograph, only not this one because it is a portrait, self.
In this one I am the tree, surrounded by minions of fallen faithful, maybe its Mecca, “maybe its their first time around” and they are the fallen and this pilgrimage is not what they signed up for.
Or I am the root stretching out from the tree, finally a stretch ,and stretching and reaching to the interesting and meaningless and pleasing, in its pattern, dirt, in the foreground. I could be that root and I would find that shout-out, that nod, to the dirt pattern good enough. And you can be the endlessly beautiful, perfectly contained and random enough so we are not bored and sunshine yellow co-creators in my portrait of me reaching to the dirt and being this tree in the Spring in the photo, all of us, at last.
The moon punches out a rim
of French-pedicured while light
familiar and elegant in her way
and under her, but not beneath her,
every imaginable dirty unraveling,
unwinding and winding, every
rushing importance and impotence, every dead
line runs itself ragged
unto the altar of morning.
And still and always and again,
like a languid lover,
At what point do I cross the line from being small to being me? Am I ready to be all of me? Am I ready to give up and fly free, to be all of me, to play big? I am. I don’t know how this will make itself known except that the photos lead me there. This bird flies this bird doesn’t know it is free it just is free. Me too.
Blood flows through me and I don’t know about it and I can’t live without it. Some people cut themselves to be sure about the living part. Feelings flow through me and I may not know about it. Is there a knife for that? Is there a third way? If I admit that I know they are there will faith be enough to make me know them?
I got no skills with this, but I can’t afford to ignore them. Apparently it doesn’t work that way. If I continue to ignore them them they take on a weird life of their own, coagulate into threatening clots and force themselves on me. This is my experience.
So I am saying that I am wanting the flow, putting it out there, in there.
I set my phone calendar now twice a day to hum to me at 9:30 and 2:30. The name of the appointment is “pause”. Just a little second, a gap, a wingbeat, to check in,
Find my flow.