7.17.23

Making art itself is the practice without a destination. Is it enough to wake us up? Or will it keep us asleep? Two years ago I was studying and writing short stories on my own. I wanted to see what the light looked like refracted through that form. I was in Los Angeles, in that old house where it felt like anything could happen. I did make a map then, trying to get from here to there. When in reality the only path is to walk from "there to here" (turning inside towards the writing, which is the beating heart of things). Walking through Central Park in December with ______, I said boldly - I want to write stories that feel like a door opening. I didn't want to write an ending, I wanted to begin.