From 2015, I think?
I thought I forgot how to love him but it's all magnified.
The grey. Burnt embers. The moon makes us ashen.
Can we find water?
I don't remember singing.
It's always this way after a panic.
That heavy ache where my leg is supposed to be.
Stillness like funerals.
Here is the smallest moth, white stardust shimmering in rainlight.
Single soprano over violin and piano.
The spot of light in deepest chasm.
A letter passed between them in secret.
This is my chance.
Side by side this togetherness a community a village of song.
Before today, there was no thought of loss.
At least, no loss spoken.
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Process notes on a work in progress (me). This mostly contains raw rough content pulled out of practice notebooks. Occasional posts also invite you into the way I work, with intermittent notes on the hows and whys on the whats I make. Less often you may also find prompts and processes I've brought to workshops, as well as surveys that help me gather material for projects. Similar earlier posts from years ago can be found on: