maybe it begins with self-denial, a mode of being above others, yourself.  an act of suppression that works so efficiently it barely lets its presence be felt.  'this is working for me,' but perhaps we know that it is not.  complacency disguises as contentment and thin shiny coats of varnish grow thicker, harden, yellow and become brittle.  it is when these layers develop their first hairline cracks, betrayed by the inconsistencies they sought to consensually enclose, that i am interested in.

i am going from place a to place b doing tasks 1, 2 and 3. someone catches my millisecond - the snap made by that stress fracture captures their attention.  its how the arm is hung, the gaze directed, or the sheen of saline across the surface of an eye.  the cavernous gape of a mouth that is not open, the tilt of head and slight twist of torso.  these set against an austere background harkening to an incapability to realize and recognize our individually inhabited space.

i used to finish paintings by covering them from height to width in paint - only then could they be 'done.'  this practice then too was a forcing of reality; something unnecessary if not short of detrimental to the sort of experiences i hoped that they would engender as well as render.

'is that completed', someone asks as they point to little q.
'yes, well, i am certainly done with it', i reply.

the moment of exposure passed, and unlike syndicated network television series, the reruns are never even half as good.