trying_to_understand_the_stone ever dumbening Each of our lives is as an Andy Goldsworthy creation--crafted out of our time and our surroundings, crushed by the same. We race against the certainty of the incoming tide, the inevitability of wind. We are brilliance lurking just below the surface and giving form to the same. A forty-six year old man works twigs and leaves, ice and rocks, but I see a boy--two really, projected and reflected. I think of Mink Brook, behind my aunt and uncle's house in Hanover, of dams built. I think of the sand and rocks, reds and browns and blacks, of Joshua Tree, of two brothers in their thirties piling some rocks, climbing others. I think of those two brothers as boys, in red and yellow plastic boots, racing twigs down the storm-filled gutters of Amherst Street. Each collapse brings greater understanding of the building materials, of self. Our "dialogue with the stone--that makes the wall." 030301 ... ever dumbening Why do I sit, knowing what I do know, moving towards both Scylla and Charibdis with one stroke? The draw is infinitely strong. Some post-post allegory I've already known to learn tells me what resistance is. Yet she sings to me. And she sings to me. And I craft and sculpt her with my own hands, as only they know how. And of course they cannot lie, but it is I who misinterprets what the ground-up granite tells me. A well-made beer or five. A midnight message, interrupted and returned. A hand across my pale night skin. A shared belief in Blackwater Pond. A moment wedging pounds of clay. A dance that one did claim to see. But none can move this stone. And I'm not so sure it's even there. 040228 ... Dr. No The stone isn't physically there it is all in your imagination and it has become a sort of psychosis shared by all you encounter. 040228 ... nom . 060716 what's it to you? who go blather from