Life, lately, has been full of encounters that seem to lead to perspective. The floating horizon, heat waves rolling on asphalt. In optical terms, the relationship between the apparent size of an object and how far it is from you (distance & height) can be rendered via an inverse linear function. Perspective as a matter of relation. Relations. In flux.

(Enter errant thoughts of Fluxus.)

Facing a sea-change in work, in life, as a necessary encounter with one's own borders, the unsuspected/uninspected shapes of one's perspective. To feel, perhaps, that Gatsby's green lights have been within us, beside us all along. Or how very orange they are. Such sea-changes, such vertigo, are necessary, I think. But this essential human work cannot be done by or for or on one's self, I also think. I suspect these things are the necessary state & trace of relation. The gift.

(Enter Édouard Glissant, via Betsy Wing: "your chasms are our own unconscious, furrowed with fugitive memories...")

Work, lately, has been mired in uncertainty & surprising confrontations with my own assumptions, perspective. About language, the thing-ness of poems, work with words. Meaning(ful) communication. I do not know where language, imagination will next lead. Off a cliff, into the marrow. A period of extreme self-indulgence or creative growth. These relations don't have to be dialectical. Perhaps simultaneous, stochastic. Ultimately, however, I think such disorientation, growth and folly are opening within me because I am surrounded by a landscape and community that is wholly new & yet familiar. Even familial, perhaps.

How, until the very moment of this writing, I've always experienced my work as something intensely personal, generated and rooted in my embodied self and its encounters. How very small that story is. How overlooked, in all that, is Relation. Which leads me to ask: Is there any kind of human work that is not ultimately a collaboration?

Solitude & control, after all, as matters of perspective.