There are some things that I don't want to hear, so I selectively listen. But everything is always coming in, and as much as I can choose not to cognitively take in things, it leaks through from the sub-terrain. I over-feed my cat because she comes attention seeking, and I try to block my ears to all of her purrs, but obviously I don't; she's fat. I find it hard to hear the conversation of the person in front of me when the carnival is passing by.

There is something similarly useless about the words very and special. I feel very. But particular to special, I find it interesting how it describes itself. To say special in any other singular word, misses the point of the word and its' individuality. It feels to be a let down to the specific point, time, place, person, memory held dear to the individual. It is a mixture of endearment and a particular. Somewhat personal. I find it interesting to try to capture a special moment, it highlights how not involved in that particular moment that I am trying to capture, questioning the point of my practice: am I documenting for myself, or for an audience - if it was ultimately for myself, I think that I would be more engaging in the situation and less profiling.
To all those special moments I disengaged to engage with, and those unexpected special moments, where I hadn't the forewarning. To warm morning brown eyes, unexpected I love you's, immediate reactions and hands placed gently on shoulders, my comfort reaches deeply into your pot, and I am eternally grateful.

Some things to do while passing the time.
Reading all the posters on the wall, the most relavant one informs me that I am in a waiting room, and smoking is not permitted.
Listening to green shoes next to me talk a bit too nervously over the phone about nothing in particular; mostly mentioning people and places.
Cleaning my nails.

Lighting a candle, but I'm not sure how much my belief runs true. I enjoy the enactment of this taking part procession, and I am enamoured in the pre and post procession. I marvel at the intricacies that have created such a science out of stories and how much holds canon towards truth being told in parables that don't entirely have anything to do with my modern day existence. I appreciate a metaphor, to suggest a way of existing, and an all encompassing rule book. The procession that I have grown up with; the mega-church has slight to do with this archaic service, and seeing its' roots there, and within those roots, older rituals and icons; I know I am experiencing a very old memory. I take part because I respect and enjoy this and the spectacle.

I have a certain way that I would like a certain history to go, and right now, I am in the beginning stages, so I feel that my language is much more impacting. My creation of histories are bound up just as much with the creation of my own story as any story that happens around me. My story will never be separate from any story that I am trying to create, nor any which I am trying to be a part of. I will try to arrive at this new story as myself, unknowing of the intricacies of this foreign history, my story becoming a conglomeration of every story that I want to be a part of. My I has many ingredients. So to my new story, as yet hopefully beginning, of five smooth stones, I hope we can make something of each other, and keep doing so.

I am trying not to keep with me anything more than I have need of, letting go that which doesn't do more than take up space; be it mental, physical or emotional. I don't have space in my life for anything more than I intend; for it to work smoothly. I am constantly trying to find the equilibrium of not too much and not enough. Devoting my time to creating, and that supporting myself is my working model of this consequence. Through this approach of only keeping the needed and no more; I have realised it takes a lot of action to not do too much of what I don't want.

The family occasion, and you invited me to peek into a part of your life. I'm confronted with a strange sense of romantic intimacy that's not packed up with all that luggage. Passenging from your city to a new coast, along flats speckled with not that much, I'm taking respite from directing. It's a nice ride and i don't want to complicate it. I like sitting next to you, almost touching

Stating and respecting boundaries; I draw.
Unsheathing; I draw.
The body is severed; a line of definition, not the triumph of conquering, and this is how I decide to contend.
I haven't given more than I can afford, nor received what I need. I have not won, nor lost in drawing lines: a line between your legs, a deep warm fleshy wound, a curving along your neck, withstanding your proud face holding a heavy gaze. I can't find the true side of the line, nor leave it behind. I'm both repulsed and drawn.
I reflect on the line of capture.

Time has stopped
I am waiting
saying waiting
saying stop
saying go.

I have stopped, time is waiting, curse this waiting.
I've said I'd never do it again. Take a moment out from the passing of non-passing. Take a breath outside, in the moving fresh wind of an hour, a minute... and return to waiting.
Conscious of waiting; but not what for. Conscious of whatever arrives; it isn't it. Knowing that when say that I'm not waiting, I'm busying myself; waiting to get back to waiting.
A waiting place. I'm waiting in a room, expecting to be called at any minute, to be told and given, or to be told not, but still given. I will be given but not told. I will take if I am given what I'm told, which isn't fair. What I'm told doesn't surprise me, its like being told the secret that silence has to tell you. I was told silence; and it filled me with waiting. I wait, and silence is nowhere to be found. Why am I not filled with silence while I wait.
Now listen to what I have to say and not how I say it, I fear I may say it too loud, or to soft. And forgive my murdering of subtleties, my manners might have been left in the waiting room.