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  • My mother told me to go see the dark turn over here, over this patch of sand two hours away from home.

    Fine grainy sand.
    There was no light when I slipped off my shoes. I tried seeing what kind of blue I'd muster still. Just to shake off the dead weight. Mouth scrunched up, one knee on the wet sand, one eye pursed shut so the other could focus, I tried being with that man and this dog in the almost light. The sea came in and swept quietly over my feet. I laughed out aloud, the man looked up at me.
    I get it, I get it. When I laugh out loud it usually means I get it, I've recently realized.
    It seemed like a metaphor for where I am right now, with work and life, the films-which-will-be still floating in words, the films shot and in-process waiting for some signal from me to bubble over into formation.
    I've been in the dark and spoken of it so long, I can only talk in terms of the light now.
    And years back, I was possessed with writing, capturing, filing away the almost-light.
    But if I am to express this light, I'm going to have to do the whole journey again each time.
    Holding out the hand, by building the dark so the light can mean something when it is shown. The fistful of light is not enough.
    A different kind of darkness must be painted out for a different kind of light.
    One, not leaving out the other, co existing, so my journey may be borrowed, fine grain and all.

    Who knows where the messenger for this part of the arrangement got caught up.
    No worries, I stumbled my way into it, there will be more to exchange when he finally does reach me. More questions I'd have formed by then.
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