The Sandbox

Amnesia, Art, Healing

3/25/17

7AM JST

Authenticity

Yesterday felt like a bust. Forty degrees outside and we hunted down a pool for Pete as he hasn’t worked out in a while. The building we entered was overheated but no match for the pool which was, once we finally were able to do the conversion to Farenheit, 90 degrees. 

I almost bailed but did a slow hot mile in a crowded pool as I wondered how people there could stand it. 

More than anything the lighting and colors, faint light blues and yellows, under fluorescent lights in the locker room, felt retro and triggering; I felt regressed, unable to understand what people were saying, thrown back in time in my gut.

Colors, I see, can clearly take me back and in some case bring me memory. 

This trip to Japan feels like a nod to this truth—and perhaps the reason why this past year or so I’ve been so attracted to abstract paintings that leave subjects mostly behind and allow the mind and heart to be taken anywhere. 

While on the bullet train from Tokyo to Kyoto the other day I read the first portion of the book I abandoned. I could feel the place where my meditation became polluted--hijacked--and felt this beat inside. This clarity to leave this piece somehow as is and to move away from it and purse the rest of the narrative from a different perspective. A perspective that feels...more awake. 

This change in perspective has me thinking that I can and do live in different places around my Sandbox work. In very broad strokes, one place is deeply emotional and "writerly", another, more clinical. The emotional place especially is a place where writing can take me and where I can take my writing, a place where I go sometimes. It is this place inside that feels windy and emotional—it is a voice too—and I’m not sure when and how to use it if I were to put more of more story together in a linear manner. Sometimes I howl. Sometimes I do not. 

A

Show everything...we are…all of it. 

S

Who am I, A?

A

You are all of it,S. The writer who howls, the writer who describes. 

S

I seem to howl less these days?

A

We howl when we howl. We are calm when we are calm. We cannot ask self to be anything other than what self is each day. We write what we hear, we write what we feel. 

S

What do I hear? What do I feel?

A

Our heart has been waking us up…tick, tick, tick…up…up…up.  This is a process much like birth; painful, beautiful, necessary. We feel and see ourself cracking open like an egg, a chick from the inside, squinting at the sunlight, the world through cracks in a shell. We push to see more, to feel more, we record what we see, how it feels, each morning if we can. 

S

I am a chick inside its shell. I can see…more. But I am not sure I want to come out. I want my shell, I want my protection. I do not know what I will be or who I am if I am to wobble out on my own. 

A

We have lived in our shell for decades. It is hard, well worn, contoured perfectly to our psyche. But it grows too tight in our fifth decade. We are destined to be much more than unborn. 

S

But A, I am running out of time to be me. 

A

No such thing. Every day, every tick of the clock and heart, there is time and there is space. 

S

I look at the artists in the world—the great artists—which I am not—and I see that they had time—decades to hone and explore. I wake up so late. So late I am shaking my head most of the time trying to orient myself. I feel such grasping, so much time lost. 

A

We are unlike any other, preserved perhaps to do our greatest work now, energized uniquely, our shell where we have lived has molded us in ways that add perspective. 

S

I’m not leaving my shell. I won’t. 

A

No one says we have to. 

MLG
I’m never leaving my shell which is in other words my bunk bed. Never. NE-VER.

Shard

Baby. Get up. 

MLG

No. My shell is mine. Forever. 

S

It’s okay, Monkey. We have Pete. And we have Leon. We have Stella too and our clays waiting back home and a pair of palms and a set of fingers that have been well rested. 

MLG

I want to go home. 

Shard

Baby. Go see the bamboo groves. 

S

Yes, Shard. We will. And soon, Monkey, we will be back on a plane. 

A

Allow, allow, allow...everything.