A story from the future.
Create like a God, order like a King, work like a Slave.
It's about impossible situations, ambiguity. - Kafka
Art is used here to mean the accomplishment of knowledge in action.
Sweet rain, humid heat, frangipani scent.
He realizes through my movements I was born to dance.
My gratitude is stillness. There is a big difference between sitting still and doing nothing.
I smell roses. I swallow fresh orange juice. I engage all my senses in direct, immediate experience. He cannot save me from my destiny. He can only allow the process to open.
He talks to me with non-speech one overcast day. He brought me apples, oranges and mangoes. He pretends our passion is a glimmer of want’s potential desire in the long now.
Inside my deep eyes, a mischief of strangers comfort each other without discrimination.
I am a singularity.
My speech voice is missing.
I make rolling guttural sounds expressing metaphors, similes, intonations, frequencies, meaning, sense, time, ideas, dreams, relationships, secrets, my traditional family values, fear, passion, heart and sadness. Joy.
By the time I learned the alphabet it was late in life toward primordial dusk.
Late in the moment from before now and then. Late in the whisper of silent air singing from the trash collector’s plastic bottle. He pulls his rolling cart. Filled with cardboard. A muscular rhythm stirs sonomulent dust on broken stones. I see, said the blind girl. You can’t step in the same river twice.
Possibilities and probabilities, chance and coincidence flutter finger fragments. Unknown mysterious sensations fling from my signing hands. Fingers and hands are language extensions. Blossom being. My lover visualizes me in tropical brown skin toned worlds. He imagines I will join a hearing impaired community. He’s a dreamer. I jump ahead in my story. It won’t happen. I am a slave.
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