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?
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