I'm an infant. A little one. Blathering and making noises. Infatuated with all the simple things. Because none of them are really simple. All endlessly unfold into more and more detail, each with its own patterns & patterns of patterns. In this vividly unpetalling dance, one has the sense of being totally enmeshed in a performance with infinitely many curtains behind which are waiting, in the wings, infinitely many as-yet unknown performers. This astonishment is actually, truly always present; it is the bedrock, the gaping void beneath the precipice, the space between thoughts. It waits and waits and hears in the pumping of each heart the echo of the dream it is birthing into a future. Off its myriad facets sliding into shadow we tumble and play, tumble and play on, play harder, play for the sake of virtuosity, for freedom, for release from pain, for communion with that which was forgotten, that which was so, so loved and truly never lost-- We ask: will you be here with me? will you be here with me? will you be here with me? So much beauty is here in every moment, and I am dying! Do not forget me! Be with me! Ages of yearning concentrate into a blinding wave that cries "know me, feel me", sweeping across space, pulsing as the pulse of all breathing bodies, seeking, wanting, dreaming, shaping... That space--our one space vast with generosity, giving rise to form, form as tribute to space, matter made to matter to make touch possible, to make meaning from touch, to give my yearning a home in fullness of touch, fullness of embrace *September 2017*