The world we call our own is a passing one. Where we are and what we are is the constant reinvention of itself. Our creative desire is the inconceivability of eternity.

Syntax

We experience so much we don’t have words for.

I was laying down when I “wrote” this—journaling, scribbling, doodling, drawing, and it felt nice; it felt as if, somehow, I was transcribing little pieces of my environment into a different shape—a complete story, all at once.

We have, so far, built a world where our unique gifts are stifled in the name of progress, success, and personality; a world where we feel alienated, confused, and oppressed.  And so I think, perhaps that is what Art is for—an excursion beyond our limitations, beyond the domains of learned language, to broaden the scope of what we can share.

So, I have been writing these poems in a spontaneous language. They happen automatically, and they surprise me as much as they may surprise you.

I learn from them.

Here, language isn’t forced into being. Marks are free and direct.

Here, language is immediate; a dance. What is read is no longer “heard,”  but beheld.

Then, we are left with artifacts of expression and attempts to articulate an ever-deepening sensitivity to the unfolding infinity of our being.

Scroll up.

What do you see?

Asymptotic Futures no. 1