"A space must be maintained or desire ends," writes Anne Carson.

* * *

I heard Anne Carson read her own work a couple of years ago.
It was in a large, modernly-gaudy building created for dancers and the theatre.

Ashley and I had barely begun the transition back into friendship, and I hadn't spent much (any) time near him in public.
He sat in front of us, a group of our friends surrounding (not buffering: it was always easy to feel alone with Ashley).

As Carson talked, occasionally I would pick up my pen and open my notebook.
Upon shutting the book I noticed that Ashley had seized the same opportunity (inspiration) to jot notes as well.

It was comforting and disorienting -- I felt closer to him, and I recognized how our bond had shaped us indicipherably,
how much I could never be only myself, the myth of myself,

magically uninfluencable yet impossibly stable.

We become who/what we choose to be around, to a certain and fluctuating extent. And above all else, I admired how Ashley thought (still, now: how he thinks), so it's no surprise I learn(ed) from it, felt/feel urged on by it, built/d a sense of self around it, felt/feel challenged too luckily.

Our companions are not a reflecting pool...

but maybe a reflecting river with currents always changing the face we see before us (ours),
endless input morphing shut one eyelid and open one gargantuan mouth,
etc etc (horrifyingly) unique etc.

I know where this is. And why. And how. And when. Surprise! (August, 2015)

Lately I haven't put much thought into what I post. I let myself follow the instinct when it strikes.
I know growth is partially the conscious search and struggle, but I believe in waves

(enough to know I sometimes have to let my body be propelled by them,
both up for air and down for contemplation of the silt).

In the past, however, I have glanced at the overall arc of what I've been sharing and noticed a trend,
a material and fairly shallow trend.

For instance, lately I've been sharing a lot of self-portraits. (Lately, here.)
To goad the self, I decide to post something Other.

For so many reasons. Including to goad the viewer (that's you, the resistant you) as well.

I try not to do this any more. I try to not do it much.
I try not to play into the idea that what you think of what I make encourages the wheel to turn.

(And turn and turn and turn.)

Sometimes I cannot help it, I give in. (Today)

I want to tell you about the photos I make that I don't share here,
the ones that I love, the ones that are terrible,
the ones that are composed with the bones of an afternoon I have not forgotten. 

I write so much here that suggests I only love the indefinite, the ambiguous, the followable that retains its mystery.

It's not (entirely) a true story, or not one told to its full length.
I share as many, perhaps more, that have a large backstory that you are more than welcome to hear if you only ask.

As an unknown woman in Gallery 7 of the Whitney said on July 30th, 2015
(which I wrote down in the same journal with Anne Carson, but this time overheard very much alone),

"I fell in love, but I also never relaxed."

That is an extension of the story I continue to tell here,
the river reflecting the sky (with my face in it, yes, with the erotic in it, yes), all the time.