I am resting.

I have been sick, in a manner somewhere between real and imagined, since the turn of the year. 

It's hard when your body feels weighty and dim and the afternoon sun begs you to sleep. Sleep in my warmth, sleep in my light, sleep in my silence. Momentum has always been my enemy. Any change in velocity or direction.

I am supposed to have been stitching away merrily for the past several hours. Oh, would that I could, Orange One. Would that I could.  My frame of tiredness is a bit too deep for even that. I lay on my side, alternating between reading East of Eden and drifting away drowsily. The afternoon sun calls me to dreaming.

Today I pulled my first prints since the first and last linocut I made in middle school. They are not perfect, but nothing is. And at least they are something.

My brother told me he wants to go out into the desert and play Em chords on the guitar. I told him to take me with him. There's a desert rat in me that wants to be let out, he said. I thought of sun and spare land and endless sky.

Last night I watched a video of modern bushmen practicing persistence hunting. Where you run down an animal until it collapses from exhaustion and heat. You know humans are better endurance runners than most animals. I watched the bushman run down a kudu and kill it so respectfully I wondered if I was even human. Laying on my back, feet up on the radiator—I will never reach the measure of my creation, not if that measure is what I had just seen on the screen.

Annie Dillard wrote of Eskimos in the frozen North, "running after the click-footed caribou, running sleepless and dazed for days, running under the long-shadowed pale sun, running silent all night long." Do the Eskimo's faces shine, she wondered, like the face of Moses when he descended from Mount Sinai?

I have been thinking about the sun. As an abstract concept, in symbols. Drawn over and over again in my notebook like an all-seeing eye. The squiggled lines of the painted-over metal sun affixed to the side of my chiminey. What happens when you stare at the sun? The earth will not support such a perversion.

I almost wore sunglasses to church today. As a performance piece, just to see what would happen. "Face the sun of my salvation." I cannot. There are so many mediating layers between me and whatever source of holiness is the Prime Mover of our world.

So in the meantime I will make art, I suppose. Draw the sun with black pen in my notebook. Sleep in the afternoon light.

I am resting. 

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