I wrote that first sentence I feel scattered leaving myself behind when I was 20 travelling through Mexico, California, the Yukon don’t remember exactly where – but it was the year I first encountered Buckminister Fuller on a wet day in a library in Santa Barbra, the same day I picked up Burnt Toast at a used book stall.
I mentioned to Aunt Dorothy my habit which I continually live to regret of giving books away. She sought out Burnt Toast (man you can find anything on the internet) and after reading returned him to me. Peter Gould is the author.
Still I remain fence sitting. Will I or won’t I revisit my younger self?
The challenge was to bring a sentence to the workshop, have a discussion about stuff then go away and add to that sentence. This is what transpired.
I feel scattered leaving myself behind.
Some days are better than others.
Falling off the edge of the world is an option I guess.
The world does seem flat these days.
We are more empty space than muscle and bone.
Why can’t I walk through walls? Is it a lack of imagination or a lack of faith?
You can’t get there from here. Isn’t that the problem?
Don’t look back. Is that an answer? What was the question?
Is the world changed by thoughts? Are we?
Is it really life’s purpose to anchor our words?
Isn’t it enough to let them out into the world
of sound and set them free from purpose.
Not as tools and trades but as expressions of
joy passion pain
letting go relinquishing the need to control