I think about, have thought over, the multiplicities of migrations within and without, wherein one anticipates the unknown distance a body must travel into order to transform, be transformed by time. Hence, the migratory impulse of a moment in which movement begins even before this body willingly, unwillingly steps upon that road we define as art. In the making, one eye is bound to variations of hue, multitudinous sounds and textures that teach each finger how to see gradations of life among the living. While the other binds me to what I dare not wish to see, but like the inebriated stumbling across a sidewalk in a city rife with unseemly scenes, hopefully, to be unremembered but nevertheless caught between pupil and lid, the eye may close but the seen is kept, kept in mind for some future purpose yet to be defined. Time lines the distances a mind must travel dragging the surly flesh step-by-step over hill and vale. Time unwinds, with the urgent urgency of the blind to see, the deaf to hear and the dead, once more, to rise. In every disguise, time pushes forward while looking back/keeps goin’ round/round/up/down following glowing orbs that light night, blaze day, open/close the way/the way forward/back to that beginning/for at the end a future’s tense awaits. Thus, this journey across waves of days rushes forward surges back Into depths of lightless nights. In that there, the longing of centuries, come and gone, glistens in the hour glass of the past. Here on the see-side, on the sure shore of breaking day they arrive once more alive among the living to tell, do tell, from whence and, once where, they came.