The Transfer of Heat -Inspired by yesterday’s laundry
Today I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror. I unhinged my clenched jaw long enough to let out a laugh. Brows burrowed, inevitable future wrinkle lines apparent, the ridiculousness of intensity allocated to such a silly task: My days have become, and after some consideration, have perhaps always been a long series of moving items from one place in space to another. Shuffling things at a calculated randomness is, to this date, my most practiced skill. A set of rules created and abided by to satisfy the illusion of order.
Not just today or this moment, my entire life. I moved body to school, school to home, to work, to sleep. I moved emails from inbox to deleted items, seed from womb to blood and guts and bone, twice. I moved paint from plastic to canvas. Food from garden to plate to mouth. Trash from floor to bag to dumpster and then off to its final resting place. My eyelids move blink to blink just to lubricate the lens.
I’ve moved couches and clothes hangers and old diaries from one place in space to another. Repetition disguised as progression, or so it feels when unloading the dishwasher.
Even now, I am moving thoughts from my head to words for other people to read. An attempt to create logic and reason to the ideas that otherwise only exist inside of myself. Movement is Art in an infancy state.
I guess this is what makes us human, our relentless movement. A lifetime of moving objects or thoughts from one space to the next. A constant state of forward motion until it all comes to a sudden halt.