A real thought

That what I produce is for the production of it, not the valuation.

This is what time alone has given me: the recall of the essence of the item.  The blood under the skin, in perfect symphonic movement with the bones in the way and the organs that fuel it.  The second by second work of it, with the fearlessness of feedback.

The way it holds itself to all the other parts doing their job without declaration of purpose or hesitation of recrimination.

The way it hears a signal inaudible to anything else and make the nanosecond adjustments to enact that signal’s code.

The way it functions cleanly – clearly – even when I cloud the signals up with the tired filter of self-awareness.

Fingers on a keyboard, given to me by a lineage of women and their partners who pulled carrots from the garden, lifted soot from the stove, rang bicycle bells of warning to neighbors, rested in windowsills in greeting and farewell bidding.

Who held on to new passports, tore doors off rotten hinges, flushed language through americanizing veins, wrung hands at injustices.

Their legacy to me was inside-out.  To go from the clearest purpose internally, with no shrouding of worth, and bring it forth to others – in concert with the distant communities they faced.

With direction and clarity, they changed courses of lives – oftentimes for better, occasionally for worse, and yet constantly forward.  What I can pull from them, in the quiet of the room where no one is watching, is this sense of myself without being watched.

Or, more clearly, this sense of myself without the feeling of being watched.

Because, truthfully, who really is watching?

Messy Head

Not so bad really.  Coming through the clean end of the self-loathing purge.  Set up in my own hayloft, over the patio of production, I have a chance not to be of that busy world.  It is a busy world, and while the first 24 hours were filled with the internal draw toward those impulses, yesterday I watched.

And I think I even caught a thought balloon – the groundskeeper longing for what I have.

And then I imagined the thought balloons that would emerge from this tiny space, and how glad I am that no one can see them: thoughts of misery at my own weaknesses, perplexity about a process I’m new to, and concerns about the people I seem to be leaving behind while mucking around in this.

Thought balloons always seem so bright – as if they truly are the actual content of an object of joy for children.  How strange that mine seem military green, charcoal grey, and rust colored.

And then I gave myself some air, some oxygen, and considered the notion that perhaps these emotions that arrive to me as thoughts are not really thoughts at all – but pre-thoughts.  The emotions leading up to more concrete thoughts.  The anxious expression of the laboring of a real thought.

And that when I’m quiet those will come, dressed in red, blue, and bright yellow.  Chasing me down the streets of Paris in my dreams.